


stand (in the place where you live)

by Boardingschooled



Series: and you're standing here beside me (i love the passage of time) [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (Up to S2), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Billy Hargrove & Eleven | Jane Hopper Friendship, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character: Ten, Character: Twelve, Child Abuse, Consensual Underage Sex, Discussion of the AIDS crisis, Family Isn't Just Blood Y'all, Fix-It, Found Family, M/M, Outing, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, an unnecessary amount of southern references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-11-16 07:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 180,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boardingschooled/pseuds/Boardingschooled
Summary: After the gate is closed, Billy Hargrove has to face the consequences of what he's done, and it's all thanks to Hopper and his habit of taking in strays.Alternatively: Billy becomes a good big brother, learns how to apologize, and makes some very gay mixtapes, not in that order.





	1. do you wanna feel (how it feels)?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! A few quick notes, mostly about posted warnings: 
> 
> First, I've tagged this with period-typical homophobia and racism, but that isn't necessarily entirely true--Billy's internal monologue is pretty laced with internalized homophobia and I don't think I could write a fic like this without addressing Billy's high-key racist tendencies, but I'm absolutely not trying to be period-accurate with homophobia (especially in the later parts of this work) and, as I'm not a person of color who was alive in the eighties and I haven't done extensive enough research, I don't think I'm gonna accurately represent what racism was like then either. 
> 
> I use the f-slur once, in the first chapter. I won't be using it again, but I do use the word q*eer and other homophobic slurs. In an attempt to be period accurate, I'll also be using some ableist slurs (including l*me, cr*ppled, and a few others). There's no actively ableist behavior, though. If that kind of thing can be triggering for you, proceed with caution! 
> 
> The first part of this has some relatively explicit descriptions of child abuse and violence which, while not as explicit as some works, can still be pretty triggering. There's a spoiler-y summary at the end of the chapter with more details. 
> 
> Please let me know if you see any mistakes, things that need to be tagged, et cetera!
> 
>  _Stranger Things_ is a concept owned by the Duffer Brothers. Please do not share this work on any other site without the explicit permission of the writer.

_Shit_ , Billy thinks as he forces himself fully into consciousness. Neil is going to skin him alive. He knows he’s not in his own house; the dark wood paneling is even uglier than the smoke-stained walls of his room. Last night was a fucking trip; the last thing he remembers really is Max, threatening to kick his ass with that medieval-ass nail bat. His face hurts where Steve hit him and—oh shit. _Steve._

The sick crunch of Steve’s nose and the horrible shattering noise of the plate over Steve’s head swim together in Billy’s head, dropping a cannonball of nausea through his stomach. He can remember, distantly, the feeling of rage, of hurt and helplessness and fear burning through him, but he can’t really make sense of what he did now, in the weak light streaming in from the living room window. He must be in the Byers’ piece-of-shit house, but where is everybody? Where’s _Max_? Shit, if he comes home without Max he probably won’t live through the ass-kicking Neil’s gonna give him. 

His whole body is sore, and the black hole of guilt in his stomach hasn’t gotten any less deep; he hasn’t felt this shitty since before they came to Hawkins, since the last time his dad really got him good. As he starts dragging his body up off the ground (at least someone threw a blanket over him, fuck), Byers’ mom stirs from the chair she must’ve been sleeping in. 

“It’s Billy, right?” She looks like she’s been through hell, but the look in her eyes says she’s not interested in any of his usual flirty bullshit. 

“Yeah. Where’s Max? I gotta take her home, my dad’s gonna be mad we didn’t come home last night, especially since I don’t think that brat woulda thought far ahead enough to call and let them know.” There’s blood flaking off his shirt; when he goes to sweep the rest of it off, he realizes he’s gotten blood all down one side of his neck. Fucking gross.

“Hop said he’d take you guys home, make excuses to your parents and stuff, when he gets back. All the kids are still asleep in Will’s room except El, Hop took her back last night. With all they went through last night—” Her voice sounds weird, like she’s about to cry or some shit, and she has to take a few deep breaths before she goes on, “we didn’t feel like it was right to separate them. Do you want some water? I was about to make breakfast, but I sat down for a minute and must have fallen asleep, I’m sorry.” The shadows under her eyes are deep; she probably needed the rest. She isn’t making a ton of sense—like, who is Elle? Has Max finally made a girl friend?

Billy feels like his shirt’s too small; he shouldn’t be here. He knows Byers’ mom—hell, everyone other than him apparently—loves Steve, and all she knows about Billy is he drives a loud, fast car, he’s got a kid sister with a bad fucking attitude, and he beat the shit out of Steve last night. He’s surprised they didn’t throw him out in the yard last night. Honestly, he’s even more surprised Hopper didn’t just put him in a jail cell to rot; it’s not like anybody would be upset about it. 

“Do you, uh, want me to scramble eggs or make toast or something?” He doesn’t really know why he’s even asking. She’ll probably say no; she probably just wants him the fuck out of her house. 

“Do you know how to make pancakes?” she asks, sizing him up. “I’ll make eggs if you flip pancakes.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. Huh, he’s got a knot there. Whatever, he hasn’t died of a head injury yet. He realizes he should probably, like, use his manners or whatever, and adds “Mrs. Byers” as an afterthought. It’s awkward for a second as they look at each other. Billy feels like one of the street dogs back in Arlington Heights, the ones he used to throw scraps to but knew better than to touch. 

“Call me Joyce,” she says finally, and goes to pull milk and eggs and what’s left of a package of bacon out of the fridge. “The pancake mix is in the cabinet above the toaster. There’s bowls under the counter, to the right of the stove. And wash your hands before you start cooking, please.”

As if he wouldn’t wash his damn hands, Billy thinks as he soaps up. His knuckles sting; he split a few of them last night, and from the grinding way his hands hurt as he rubs the soap around, he’s probably cracked a few of ‘em, too. The remains of the plate he smashed over Steve’s head are in the sink. He feels the pit in his stomach yawn wider, throws the chunks of blood-stained pottery into the trash can. He pours half the box of mix into a bowl, then, remembering how many annoying kids are asleep in the next room, he dumps the rest of the box in. As he’s cracking eggs into the bowl (and struggling to get the bits of shell that fall in), he can feel Joyce’s eyes on him. She’s whisking her bowl of eggs around with a fork, adding way more pepper and garlic salt than he thinks is probably necessary, but she’s still got that mom-vision that prickles at the back of his neck. 

“Is everybody okay?” he asks, mostly for something to say. He figures if any of the kids were hurt, he’d already know, but he can’t stand the feeling of her eyes burning into him. 

There’s silence behind him, the loaded kind that means someone’s trying real hard not to lose it. He’s pretty sure she won’t hit him, but his shoulders curl in a little anyways. He’d deserve it if she did. 

“All the kids are fine, a little shaken up but fine. Steve looked awful last night, but he insisted on going home as soon as he could drive, said his parents wouldn’t be happy if they came home and found his bed empty. I got him as cleaned up as I could, but he’ll probably need stitches for that cut above his eye. Bob—” she stops, sounding like she might actually cry. Shit, what’s he gonna do if she cries? He’s obviously not gonna, like, hug her. 

Luckily, the kids save his ass. Henderson, the loud-mouthed idiot, wakes up everyone in the house who isn’t already up with a bellowed “I almost DIED last night AND I NEED BREAKFAST BEFORE I STARVE TO DEATH.” There’s the sound of something soft being thrown and a couple complaints, but the Brat Pack tumbles into the kitchen, following the smell of breakfast foods.

Max seems surprised to see him here when he glances over his shoulder; it kinda hurts, to know that she’d thought he would turn and run the second he got the chance. None of the other kids expected him either, clearly; from behind him he hears Henderson gasp theatrically. The ocean of silence is, he figures, chock-full of meaningful looks and ridiculous eyebrows. Billy steels himself for the glares he’s sure to get before he turns around, plate full of pancakes held out like some kinda peace offering. 

The kids all stare at him like he’s some kind of alien or some shit. He puts the plate down on the table, a little too hard. Everyone looks nervous; the younger Byers twerp twists the hem of the giant t-shirt he’s wearing around his left hand, and Sinclair stares him down, eyes scared but with a determined set to his jaw, like he’d die trying to kick Billy’s ass if he got the chance. Billy feels a surge of respect for the kid, dumb as he might be. He also knows when he’s not wanted, and so he snags a still-frying piece of bacon from the pan Joyce is managing and a pancake and makes a tactical retreat out to the porch. He needs a goddamn cigarette.

The kitchen explodes into hissed discussion as soon as the door swings closed. Through the open window, he hears Henderson, fuckin’ loudmouth, arguing for his immediate and painful death.

“Guys, he beat the shit—sorry, Ms. Byers, the heck—out of Steve. Steve’s like, the only cool dude in this town—no offense, Johnathan. Steve, like, taught me how to talk to girls! And also saved our lives and also my bike fits in the back of his Beemer and my mom likes him. We’ve gotta get revenge. No one hurts our Bard like that and gets away—”

“Listen,” interrupts Max, and Billy’s heart skips a beat. Is she gonna defend him or some shit? He doesn’t deserve it, and he knows it. “You’re not wrong, but we’ve gotta be smart about it.” Ah, _there’s_ the Max he knows and only hates sometimes. 

“Kids,” Mrs. Byers, no, _Joyce,_ chides. “We’re gonna let Hop deal with him. Before he took off last night to get El safe, Hop said he knew exactly what to do with, what’d he say, ‘an idiot kid like that.’” Shit, Billy might not even make it home if Hopper’s gonna handle him. He knows what kind of handling cops do, and it ain’t usually pretty. If his keys weren’t still in the house, he’d leave now, let his dad kick his ass seven ways to Sunday for staying out all night and not bringing Max with him. Before he can start to plan how he’s gonna get home without getting his keys or getting caught by Hopper, the cruiser bounces up the gravel driveway. _Speak of the devil and he shall appear_ , Billy thinks. 

The Wheeler brat comes sprinting out of the house, can’t stop his momentum and fucking slams into the door of the cruiser, yelling questions the whole way.

“How’s El? Is she okay? Why didn’t you let her stay here with us where we’d keep her safe? Does she still have a headache? Are you gonna put Billy in jail for beating up Steve?” 

Hopper looks like he’s been up for a week, eyes heavy with exhaustion as he glances over to the porch where Billy’s standing. He looks almost as tired as Billy feels. As he gets out of the cruiser, Hopper leans heavy on his left leg, babying his right. Did he get hurt last night? Maybe he’s got an old injury, like how Billy’s right elbow aches when it rains from all the times it’s gotten broken. 

Wheeler’s still asking fuckin’ questions, barely stopping to breathe. Finally, Hopper puts a hand on his shoulder, firm, and Mike stops abruptly, looking Hopper in the face for the first time. 

“El’s fine. I needed to make sure she was somewhere safe. Not that Joyce’s place ain’t safe, but having her and Will in the same place seemed like an unnecessary risk what with the shit that’s going on.” Hopper sounds exhausted; Billy doesn’t blame him. Wheeler looks like he’s about to start talking again, and Hop goes on before the dweeb can get too excited. 

“I’m gonna deal with Billy here in a little bit, son. Why don’t you go back in and finish your breakfast.” It’s not really a question, and the stony look on his face is unnerving. Suddenly cold, Billy fights the urge to curl in on himself. He’s not a fuckin' coward, even if Hopper is gonna kill him and leave his body out in the woods for some weird monsters and shit to find. At least if Hopper does it, Neil won’t have the satisfaction.

Wheeler has this stupid shocked look on his stupid froggy face, like he wants to argue or something, but Hopper pushes him back towards the house and he finally fucking goes. 

Hopper comes up to him, trying to hide the limp. Billy’s observant, though. 

“Bummer about your leg, Hopper. You got an old war wound or some shit?” Sometimes it’s like Billy’s mouth starts talking before his brain can catch up; god knows it’s gotten him enough fat lips. 

“Yeah, actually,” Hopper says, calm. “There’s still some shrapnel in there from ‘Nam. Fucks me up when I do too much. No shame in being hurt.” He doesn’t look like he’s gonna start throwing punches, but neither does Neil sometimes. Billy puffs his chest out, plants his feet. He knows how to take a damn hit.

“There _is_ shame, though, in hurting somebody else, especially when that someone is trying to protect people. Steve doesn’t want to press charges, and I’m inclined to agree with him, if only because trying to explain why the hell the two of you and six children were in a house and there was a bat full of damn nails means way more paperwork for me, but I’m gonna be keeping an eye on you. We’ll work out some way you can make it up to everybody.”

Billy wants to argue. He should be arrested, should rot in jail. Steve wasn’t doing nothing but trying to keep the kids safe, and Billy just came in swinging, wanting to hurt him. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doin’, Chief,” Billy drawls, “I’m not worth lookin’ out for. Better just book me in and call it a damn day.” Hopper just looks at him again, like he’s seeing something in Billy that’s not just his bad attitude or some shit. Whatever, Hopper’s got some savior complex or something, There’s no good left in Billy to save, really.

“Are there still pancakes inside? El ate all the waffles this morning and I’d _kill somebody_ for something hot to eat.” Hopper walks toward the front door, and when Billy doesn’t answer, he just sighs all gusty and goes “You’d better come get your keys if you wanna drive your deathtrap of a car home.” 

Billy follows him in; he’d better clean up as well as he can before he goes home.

Max won’t talk to him on the way home, won’t even look at him. He turns the radio down, up all the way, then makes a big production of rolling the windows up and down. She puts her finger on the window up button on her side, but otherwise she looks like some old marble statue. Billy, forever finding some way to entertain himself, remembers that chick with the snakes for hair, Medusa or whatever, and has to stifle a laugh before he remembers how much shit he’s gonna be in, from all sides. 

He doesn’t speed on the way home, even though the Byers live kinda far out from Hawkins proper and he’d normally be cruising a cool 10 over, because Hopper’s following behind him. 

When he parks at the house, Neil’s truck is still out front. He’d normally be at work by now, so the truck out front kinda makes Billy want to pull right back out of the driveway and keep going until he runs out of gas. Hopper pulls in a little bit behind him though, blocking him in. Time to face the music, Billy thinks, almost laughs again, opens his door. 

Max flounces out of the car like she’s not worried about what’s behind their front door, which—she doesn’t really have a reason to be afraid. Neil’ll just yell at her and send her to her room. Whatever happens after that’s just for him.

Hopper gets out of his truck and walks into the house after Billy, not asking permission or anything. Jesus, what a piece of work this guy is.

Neil’s face lights up when Billy and Max walk in, the joy of having a reason to yell and rage clear on his ugly fuckin’ face. Before he can even get a breath in to start up, he sees Hopper and deflates like a popped balloon. 

“Sheriff, uh, Hopper, right? I hope you’re here to explain why my good-for-nothin’ son didn’t come home last night, and where the hell Maxine was, too. Do you have kids? They’ll make you almost want to—” Neil starts, but Hop clears his throat real loud to interrupt him. 

“It’s Chief, Mr. Hargrove. Your son and daughter were involved in a situation last night, through no fault of their own. I apologize that no one informed you of your children’s whereabouts last night. One of Max’s friends had an—accident, and by the time it was possible for them to get hime, it was after three in the morning. I told them to stay over at the Byers’ for their own safety; I’m sure you’d rather have them away from home for the night than dead by some crazy drunk driver.” 

God, Hopper’s convincing. Billy had known that all cops lie, but he’s still impressed by the chief’s skills. Neil still looks like he wants to yell, but Hopper goes on before he can really get up a head of steam. 

“Max did an admirable job of making sure her friends were all safe and taken care of. Since there’s minors involved, I can’t really give you any further details, you understand, right? I do want to address something with you, though, Mr. Hargrove. Max,” he says, glancing in her direction, “why don’t you go to your room. I’m sure we won’t be long.”

Shit. Billy hasn’t been brought home by cops in like a year, since way before they moved from Cali, since before Susan and Max moved in even; he still has a scar above his right eyebrow from Neil’s class ring as a souvenir. Neil really might just kill him, if the smile frozen on his face, a little too broad to be authentic, is anything to go by. 

“Billy got a little heated with another guy last night. We talked about it briefly earlier, and I don’t think anyone’s gonna be pressing charges or anything like that, but it’d probably be good for you to have a talk with him later about using his fists instead of his words.”

Neil’s smile widens even further; Billy feels fear slip greasy into his stomach.

“Chief, thank you _so much_ for letting me know,” Neil oozes charm, or at least tries to. Billy knows better. Shit, he thinks again. He lived through last night for nothing. “I’ll make sure to remind Billy that violence is never the answer. I always tell him, our family motto is respect and responsibility, isn’t that right, boy?”

“Well, he showed a lot of responsibility for Max last night, Mr. Hargrove. He refused to leave Max, even when he knew it might get him in trouble. When he gets his temper under control, I think Billy’s gonna be a great kid.” Hopper looks like he’s only half-listening, tired and pissed off about whatever the fuck must've happened after the brat pack shot Billy up with whatever was in that syringe. “Have a great afternoon, sir, and don’t be too hard on ‘em. They’re good kids.”

Half of Billy wants to stop Hopper from leaving, wants to grab his sleeve and keep him here; no matter how much of an asshole Neil is, he’s not gonna hit Billy in front of the damn police chief. 

The other half of him wins out, though, and as Hopper reaches for the front door, Billy finds himself snarling, “I ain’t a kid, Hop.” The look Neil shoots him is poisonous, but Billy can’t make himself apologize, feet frozen where he stands as Hopper shoots him an impatient look and lets himself out. 

There’s no movement, no sound, no air in their tiny, smoke-stained living room. The window is cracked open, and Billy hears the chief’s lighter spark, hears the driver’s side door creak, hears the car start. As soon as the crunch of gravel under Hopper’s tired fades, Neil’s on his feet, shoving Billy chest-first up against the wall next to the TV cabinet, fingers pressing hard into Billy’s chin, making Billy look at him. His neck aches already. 

“Look me in the eyes, boy. What the _fuck_ were you thinking? You stay out all fuckin’ night, you can’t fuckin’ call and tell us where you are, you come home lookin’ like hell, you get into a fuckin’ _fight,_ and you bring the _goddamn_ cops to our _goddamn_ house?” Neil isn’t screaming, which is honestly way scarier; he’s hissing like a snake, and just as fuckin’ dangerous. 

“Answer me, shit-for-brains. What the _hell_ do you think you were doing?” Neil flips him around, gets a forearm across his neck. Billy knows he’s not gonna stop until he gets an answer. 

“Well, sir, Hopper wouldn’t let Max leave, and I figured you wouldn’t be over the moon about it if I came home alone.” 

Billy’s gasping for breath; he knows he has to stay calm if he wants to stay conscious, but getting choked always fucks him up, makes his heart race. He doesn’t see Neil’s fist heading straight for his mouth, but he isn’t surprised when it makes contact. 

He doesn’t know when to stop, sometimes, and so he smiles, tastes hot metal between his teeth, and spits out, mocking, “Where do you think I learned to fight, anyways, dad? Like father, like son.” The right hook to his eye hurts, but it brings with it a little distance, lets Billy disconnect from his body a little, makes the hoarse “ _faggot_ " Neil bellows in his face sting a little less. 

It’s like Billy’s floating up near the ceiling. He doesn’t feel the hits connect, doesn’t register the crack of a broken nose until he sees the shock of blood on Susan’s nice cream-colored area rug, doesn’t hurt when his body crumples onto the ground; the snarled “good-for-nothing cocksucker” Neil throws at him sounds like it’s coming from the next room. When Neil’s workboot glances across his temple, he lets himself fall back into unconsciousness, lets the darkness pull him under like getting caught in the barrel of a wave. If you fight it, you die, and he doesn’t want to die, not really. His last coherent thought, dragging across the velvet of sleep, is that he hopes Steve didn’t feel this terrified last night. 

            When he comes to, Max is shaking him, poking his forehead gently, like she’s afraid she’ll hurt him. He wants to turn away, roll back over into unconsciousness, but when he tries, his body lights the fuck up with pain. Everything hurts. His goddamn _toenails_ hurt. 

“Billy? Billy, shit, please wake up, _please_ ,” Max babbles, smoothing his sticky hair away from his face. “Billy, I’m gonna call Joyce, she’ll call Hopper, he’ll come get you, or wait, shit, should I call the ambulance?” 

He feels her warmth pull away from him, like she’s going for the phone. Biting his lip (fuck, ow), he grabs blindly, catching her lower arm. He rolls ( _jesus christ, ow_ ) onto his back, forces his right eye open (the left one’s swollen shut, shit) and manages to make his mouth work well enough to yell, “No!” 

Everything hurts, but as he stays awake, the pain retreats to the back of his mind. He needs to leave, get the fuck out before Neil gets home from work or the bar or wherever the fuck he is. His body screaming at him, he pulls himself into a sitting position, uses the TV stand to push himself vertical, sways and blinks at the spots in his eyes. 

Max is there, trying to hold him up. He can’t really hear her through the rush of blood in his ears, but she seems mad, tries to push him to sit on the sofa. Like hell is he going to bleed on Susan’s ugly floral couch; she won’t be able to pretend nothing’s wrong if there’s evidence. His vision finally clears a little bit, and the dizziness recedes until he can stagger back towards his room. He needs to get his shit, at least the stuff he cares about. If he’s not home when Neil gets back, Neil’ll take the rest of his anger out on Billy’s records and his old photos and his fucking clothes, even. 

Max is standing in the doorway to his room when he slumps on his bed, face dark red with anger. He grits his teeth against the bone-deep ache of his ribs (definitely cracked, damn) as he tries to twist to the foot of his bed. When he notices the phone in her hand, though, he stops, swollen fingers trying to grip his crate of records, and groans, “No. Phone.” 

“Billy, you were out for like, five minutes. You need help. If you won’t let me call nine-one-one, I’m just gonna call Hopper’s house.” She _can’t._ Hopper left him here, fucking tattled on him to his dad, got him the ass-kicking he’s still reeling from, and he’s not about to snitch on Neil; he doesn’t actually have a death wish, thanks, and all that’s gonna do is put Max and Susan at risk. Max is way too headstrong to go into foster care. She’d get bounced around forever, and she’s too smart and too good to be treated like shit by every idiot the state has decided is capable of caring for children. 

“Max,” he says, cold, sounding uncomfortably like Neil even to his own ears, “you’re a fucking idiot. I want to go. The cops don’t give a shit about me, Hopper doesn’t give a shit about me, and you don’t give a shit about me. I don’t give a shit about you, either. You’re just some asshole brat my dad couldn’t get rid of when he started fucking your mom, you’re not even my real sister. It takes some kinda idiot to care about someone you aren’t even related to, fuck.” 

Max isn’t one of those snivelly girls who cries about shit. She’s much more likely to throw a punch or threaten somebody’s nuts with a nail bat, for god’s sake. Still, Billy can see that his words hit home; her eyes get real shiny, and her mouth draws up real small. 

“Fine.” she says, real quiet. “I want you to go, too. You tried to beat up my boyfriend because you’re a _racist shithead_ , and you beat up Steve for no reason, just because he tried to protect us. I’ll help you get your shit out. I’m tired of seeing your stupid, ugly face.” 

She pushes past him, knocks his hand out of the way, grabs the crate of records. It’s heavy, even for him, and he can see her arms shaking with effort. 

 “Where are your car keys, asshole?” she spits, turning away from him. “Put your clothes in a bag or something. The sooner you’re gone, the better.” 

Billy’s shaking again, not from anger but from cold, from the sharp pain in his ribs when he breathes, from the dull ring of his head. Max had been so eager to get his stupid face out of her sight that she’d basically packed all his shit for him. She didn’t help him out to his car, just thrown him his jacket and his car keys and gone back into her room, shutting the door behind her. As he labored down the hallway on his way out, lighting a cigarette with clumsy fingers, he heard her voice; she was probably in there telling the rest of the brat pack what a beating he’d gotten, how glad she was to see him gone. He was an asshole, was a racist. He was, he thought exhaustedly, just like his old man. 

Billy had considered, briefly, leaving a note for Neil, some shit about responsibility and respect and how Neil wasn’t responsible and didn’t deserve respect, but at the end of the day he really doesn’t want Neil to get any angrier, doesn’t want to give Neil an excuse to start hitting on Susan or Max, fake family or not. 

Neil had always been going on about how it wasn’t okay to hit a woman, so they’d probably be safe, Billy figured. He was so tired, wanted to put his head down on the steering wheel of the Camero and rest for like, one second of his life. Neil would be home eventually, though, and he wanted to be long gone before then. 

He has half a tank of gas, and probably a hundred and fifty dollars stashed in the glovebox. How far could he get before he would need to stop, need to sleep for the night? How old does he need to be to get a hotel room? Shit, he hadn’t thought this through well enough. All the nights he’d spent, planning a million different ways he was gonna get out of Hawkins, and now he couldn’t remember a damn thing. Maybe he really is a good-for-nothing idiot; Neil had been right about what a faggot Billy was, and maybe he was right about this, too.

It takes him a few tries to get the key in the ignition, and he can hardly turn the key hard enough to get the engine to turn over. When it finally does, he pulls out of the driveway, revving the engine one last time like he’s saying goodbye to the house or something else dumb. What a sentimental idiot he is. At the main road, he turns towards the quarry, reaching a still-shaking hand toward the radio to turn it up. Whitesnake sings to him about _saints an’ sinners_ all the way there. 

* * *

On the road back to the cabin, Hopper thinks about his old life, his pretty wife and his kid, how normal it had been until it suddenly wasn’t. Even then, it had become normal: taking turns with his wife, keeping watch over the kiddo dozing in the hospital bed surrounded by tubes and wires; eating shitty, bland hospital food in silence; listening to the White Sox win ugly and lose uglier, because he had to pretend to care about anything other than Sara, fading out of her own life with every breath. 

Nothing about his life now is normal. He's had to rig traps outside his hunting cabin, which he's had to move into, hoping everyone will just chalk it up to grief and eccentricity, to take in a kid who has no family to speak of and telekinetic fucking powers. He's about to buy stock in Eggo, with how much money he spends on fucking frozen waffles. He's finally getting used to doors swinging shut by themselves, to the record player suddenly blaring _I can’t fight this feeling anymore_. 

He's down to dropping full mugs of coffee on the floor in surprise about once a week; when El had first moved in, he had broken about ten a week. Thank God for the Goodwill in Fort Wayne, where the lady who worked the counter has finally just started keeping a box up front for all the novelty mugs that come in; he makes the forty-five minute drive over there once a month, nodding along as she talks about _how awful it is, that Parkinson’s_ , the excuse she’d made up for him when he first came in desperate for something round to put coffee in. The fluorescent lights in the back corner are constantly flickering; Fort Wayne gives him migraines. 

“Hopper.” El’s voice is serious, toneless as it crackles through the radio. “Hopper. Come in.” He’s forever trying to get her to talk more like a normal person; they listen to NPR in the mornings and sometimes after dinner, but their voices are almost as lifeless as hers; he wonders why he even tries, sometimes. 

“Hopper here,” he says, gruff but kind. He’s still not sure what she wants him to be—if she wants a dad to hug her and rib her about her obvious crush on Wheeler, if she wants him to be clinical and distant like he is with the kids he interviews sometimes, their moms’ eyes bruised purple and green, if she wants him to call her his kid. 

“What do ya need, kid?” 

“Hopper. I need. To go to the quarry.” Like hell she does, he thinks. 

“Like hell you do. You need to stay indoors, stay safe. I’ll be home soon.” 

 “Hopper. The quarry. Now.” When she gets short like that, almost monosyllabic, he’s not sure how to handle it, when to push the issue. 

She’s been more stubborn lately, now that she feels _safe_ or whatever, digging in her heels about everything from Alf ( _absolutely_ not welcome on their TV at any time) to eating peas with mashed potatoes (completely essential; he was pretty sure there were still mashed potatoes stuck to the ceiling in spots from the last time they ran out of frozen peas). 

“Look, kid, you’ve gotta lay low for a while. What if somebody’s looking for ya?” 

“Hopper. NOW.” She’s raised her voice above a monotone; he’d better act fast before she fuckin’ runs off again or does something else stupid. 

“Okay, okay, what if I go by the quarry, check everything out before I head home?” There’s a moment of silence, and by the time her crackly “Acceptable.” comes through, he’s already turned the truck around, exasperated. He deserves a damn medal. 

There’s no monsters at the quarry, no rotting vines, no anything that normally accompanies El’s strange premonitions. The Hargrove kid’s flashy, dangerous car is parked in the gravel by the side of the road. He rolls his eyes as he walks over to the car, already prepared to see the kid in there doing something indecent with one of the girls from the high school or smoking something that pretty clearly ain’t a hand-rolled cigarette. Hargrove’s got two or three speeding tickets lingering unpaid at the station, and it looks like he’s about to get another one for—something. From the way Hargrove’s dad acted when he brought Billy home earlier, Hopper would’ve thought Billy’d be on lockdown, grounded until he graduates or turns eighteen or moves out or something. 

When he shines his maglight into the car, though, Hopper’s blood runs cold. The kid looks like he’s half-dead. There’s blood under his nose, both his eyes are so swollen Hopper’s surprised he could see enough to drive, and the way he’s cradling his left arm to his chest makes it seem like Billy’s got something fucked up in his shoulder. 

Billy doesn’t stir when the light hits his face, but when Hopper taps on the glass of the window, he jolts upright, terror clear in his swollen features. He cringes back, clearly having jarred something, and reaches his right hand slowly across his body, wincing in pain, to roll the window down. 

“Hey, Officer,” he slurs, not with liquor or weed but with pain, “Sheriff, no, Chief, what can I do ya for?” 

Hopper feels like shit. He should have known better than to leave Billy at home, should have read the stricken expression on Billy’s face, the flinty eyes glaring out of Hargrove the elder’s strange expression. He’s normally good at seeing those things, at getting women into the kitchen to whisper about where their bruises _really_ come from, at hearing what kids don’t say just as loud as what they do. He'd been distracted earlier, sure, by wrapping his head around all that had happened and making sure all the kids got home safe, but he should have noticed. 

He can’t find words, for a second. What is he going to _do?_ He can’t take him home, that’s for sure, and even if Max does want to kick Billy’s ass right now he’s sure she would have called an ambulance if Billy had let her. 

“Billy, son, do you want me to get you to the hospital? I can have an ambulance come if you don’t want me to drive you.” 

“Nah,” Billy says, trying for his usual, oily smile. It comes out mangled, almost nightmarish. “Just needed a place to lie low for a bit before I head out.” 

“Hargrove, you got somewhere to go? Someone you can call?” Hopper’s wheels are spinning. He knows a bit of first aid, enough to stabilize and probably pop that shoulder back in place if he needs to, but Hargrove needs way more help. 

Joyce took some nursing classes, before she got pregnant and that son-of-a-bitch Lonnie made her drop out. She’s helped the rest of the kids get patched up before, dealt with skinned knees and bruises, even stitched up Steve’s forehead earlier, when he came by the house to check on everyone. Maybe he could bring Billy there? Hell, he might have to take Hargrove to the hospital anyways. Maybe one of the ERs in Fort Wayne won’t ask as many questions; the gossip probably won’t get back to Hawkins, at least. 

Billy laughs, the sound gurgling in his chest. “You know me, Hopper, I’m a lone ranger. Who would I call? Tommy? Carol? I doubt they’d even pick up the phone. I’ll be fine, I just needed to rest for a minute.” 

This poor kid, Hopper thinks, even as he remembers how horrible Steve’d looked last night, gushing blood and pale as a damn ghost. He’s trying to decide how the hell he’s gonna get Hargrove out of the car without hurting him worse when he hears a voice through the radio. Murmuring something vaguely comforting to Billy, Hopper crunches back to the truck, opens the door and waits for her to repeat the message. 

“Bring him here.” says El, still not asking. “He has a Papa. He needs help.” 

“It’s not that simple,” he sighs. “He needs help. He’s hurt. And he’s the one who hurt Steve last night, I know Mike or one of the other kids has already told you all about it.” 

“Hopper. We help each other. You said.” He had, when she had asked why he was working longer hours, why he couldn’t be home all the time. _We all have to help each other. That means sometimes other people need me, and it’s my job to help them._

“-ing him. Joyce will help.” she says, annoyed. Briefly, he thinks back to his life before, tuna noodle casserole and whole milk and dancing on the living room rug with Julia and their daughter to _I Want to Hold Your Hand_ , then shakes off the memory and radios back, just a quick “Alright” that he finds he doesn’t regret entirely, somehow. 

“Billy,” he says, in his gruffest _don’t-argue-with-an-officer-of-the-law_ voice, “You’re coming with me.” At the panic evident on Billy’s raw-meat face, he softens his tone a little. “You’re gonna stay with me, at least for tonight. We’ll get you cleaned up, talk about it more in the morning.” 

He deserves a goddamn _medal_ , taking home strays like this. 

* * *

Getting into Hopper’s weird truck-cruiser hybrid is painful, to say the least. Hopper locks the Camaro, radios in to dispatch to let them know not to have Billy's car towed, and pulls himself into the driver’s seat. 

The look on Hopper’s face, when Billy finally opened his good eye long enough to see it, was painful too. He knows Neil did a number on him, but he hasn’t really been checking himself out in every mirror he passes like he usually does. He hadn’t even really looked in his rear view, nervous about what he’d see looking back. His shoulder fucking _hurts_ , like someone’s got a poker hot from the fire and is rummaging around in the joint. He hadn’t even noticed until he’d parked at the quarry, allowed himself to take stock of what wasn’t working right, of where his body wouldn’t listen to his mind. 

He thought Hopper’s face wasn’t just in reaction to his fucked-up face, though; Hopper had looked almost guilty, and the mean part of Billy thought _good_. Hopper deserved to feel bad, deserved to regret what he had done. Billy didn’t regret anything, except maybe that he hadn’t stolen the money he knows Neil keeps rolled into a tight curl under Susan’s side of the mattress before he left. He had deserved to get hit. He had lost Max and fought Steve and talked back. _No respect, no responsibility._

Hopper keeps glancing over at him, keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something. If Hopper apologizes, Billy might just have to throw himself out of the truck head-first. He doesn’t wanna hear it. It's nobody's fault but Billy's that he got his ass kicked. 

Right when Hopper finally nuts up enough to say his name, a voice comes through the CB radio mounted in the floorboard. 

“Hopper. Hurry up. Bring him.” If the voice didn’t sound like it belonged to a twelve-year-old, Billy would be worried there were some scheme to finish him off. Honestly, he’s still a little worried there’s some murderous plot, with the way the kids talked about him this morning. 

“Shit.” Hopper says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I have to tell you about El.” Then, into the radio, he responds “Call Joyce, tell her to meet me at the cabin with her medical stuff. Oh, and tell her not to bring the boys.” 

“Gonna drug me again, like the brat pack did last night?” Billy tries to say. His words all run together. One of his teeth is wobbling loose, and his tongue feels huge.

“No, kid,” Hopper sighs. “I might know the basics, but Joyce knows a lot more about cleaning you up than I would. We might still need to go to the hospital, but if we do I’ll take you into Fort Wayne. No sense in pissin’ off your dad any further, taking you to the ER in Hawkins.

“I do have to tell you something, though, somethin’ important.” He stops at a stop sign, turns his head all the way to look Billy in his good eye. “And before I do, just know that I’ll kill you myself if you speak a word of this to anyone who doesn’t already know. Got it?”

Billy’s nervous, now. Maybe they really _are_ gonna kill him. Fuck. He nods anyway, slow, his head and neck aching with it.

“Okay, so there’s way more of the story you’ll hear if you don’t fuck this up. I, uh, adopted a kid, about a year ago. Not necessarily, uh, legally, but, She’s mine now. She was an experiment, I guess, and she has these—powers.” _Powers?_ Billy thinks. Man, Hopper is really struggling to find words. Probably he’s never told anyone before. It sure fuckin’ sounds like it.

“She’s the one who wants me to bring you home. She’s been through a lot, son, and if you hurt her, I won’t get a chance to kill you before she does. She has—well, had—a Papa. He, uh, he treated her like your dad treats you, only—less physical.” Hopper looks like he’s got more to say, but has no idea how to say it. 

“He’s not my dad. Not really.” Billy doesn’t know why he’s telling Hopper this. He’s not even sure Max knows, although he and Neil don’t really look alike. “My mom made him adopt me before she’d agree to marry him. So when she, uh…” He fucking _hates_ talking about this stuff. Why does he have to run his dumb fuckin’ mouth all the time? “He was stuck with me.”

Hopper nods, turns on his blinker even though they’re out in the middle of the damn woods and they haven’t seen another car for like, seven miles. There’s an uneasy silence in the car; it’s not the one he’s used to, the one that means somebody’s about to get hit. It’s more like when he’s been alone with his exes, the ones who think he started rumors about sleeping with them. It’s like there’s no air to use for talking.

Hopper pulls out a cigarette, rolling down the window. He lights one and, when Billy reaches for his own pack real careful, trying not to jostle his shoulder or anything, Hopper passes him the lit cigarette.

“Leave yours, I’ve got plenty. Hope you don’t smoke menthols, though, I smoke Camels,” he tries to joke. Billy, having just taken a huge drag and figured that out by experience, coughs up half a lung, pressing hard on his cracked ribs to keep himself from screaming with the pain.

“I do.” he breathes, once he’s able to get some air in his lungs. “Smoke menthols, I mean.”

“Sorry, kid,” Hopper says, sounds like he means it. “Oh, also, no smoking in the house. It’s bad for the kid. Really, you shouldn’t smoke either, but I figure you’ve earned it. You gotta smoke all the way outside though, not just on the porch. It sucks, but you gotta.”

Billy’s heard all that shit about secondhand smoke or whatever, but he’s plenty tall (no matter what Tommy’s said about how Steve’s taller) and he never had asthma or whatever. Max is fine, too. He’s not gonna argue, though. They turn onto an unpaved road, really just two tire-sized ruts in the dirt.

“You sure you aren’t taking me out to the woods to kill me now? Might as well get it over with. I won’t fight it.” Hopper laughs a little, shakes his head no.

Billy’s just so fucking _tired_. His mom said that a lot, near the end, that she was just too tired to fight. Not only is he a mean, violent son of a bitch like Neil, he’s a quitter like his mom.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t know anything about his real dad, or else he’d be doing his best to be all the worst parts of that asshole too. Maybe he is already; he did run off, leave Max alone in that house covered in his blood and Neil’s hate, just like his dad ran off and left his mom, alone and young and scared and pregnant with Billy.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about his mom; he usually keeps her locked in the back of his mind, where thoughts of her can’t surprise him. Thinking about her makes him feel like that Prometheus guy, the one who had to get his liver ripped out forever. Great, now he feels like shit inside and out.

The hollow feeling in his belly keeps his mind off his fucking shoulder though, fuck. What the hell did he do to it, or, really, what the hell did Neil do to it? He vaguely remembers watching from above as his body fell to the ground, his shoulder hitting first. At least it’s his bad arm, he guesses. His right arm’s still mostly okay, even if a few of his fingers on that hand are swollen and stiff like they’re broken. Had he imagined Neil, stepping on his hand and grinding down like he was trying to put out a cigarette? Whatever, he’ll either die from the pain or live with some cool fucking scars.

He’s kind of chuckling to himself, thinking about if girls like scars, and whether he cares about that or not, and maybe a little bit about if Steve’s face is gonna scar, and how probably _everyone_ is gonna like Steve’s scar because everyone thinks Steve’s hot, when Hopper stops the car.

“Sorry, Bill,” he grimaces, “this is as close as we can drive up to the house. There’s some, uh, trip wires and shit.”

Hopper goes around the car, limp a little more obvious now, and helps Billy out. Billy nearly bites through his lip completely when he accidentally moves his shoulder, and tastes blood again. Fucking gross. He could puke, he thinks, if he had the energy to. He just wants to _sleep_ , wants it like he wants some food and an original pressing of _Led Zepplin IV_ and a warm hand around his dick and soft lips on his cheek, soothing him.

They struggle onto the porch, and the door swings open. It’s a little like a haunted house, the way there’s no one on the other side pulling it back. The girl, Elle or whatever, steps into view. She’s small, skinny, with these huge eyes and this real curly mop of short hair, like Molly Ringwald or something. She’d look scared, he thinks, if she didn’t look so determined, her mouth set hard like she’s willing to fight if she has to. 

“Want help?” she asks, her voice kind of flat. Before Hopper can really answer her, Billy’s floating, which, like, _what the fuck??_ , onto the sofa.

“Aw, c'mon El, you couldn’t even put a towel down?” Hop asks, frustrated but clearly fond. “He’s gonna bleed all over my couch. I _like_ this couch. Hell.” A car comes careening through the woods, brights on, going a little too fast down what’s basically a fucking horse path. Almost before the car’s in park, Joyce Byers jumps out of the driver’s seat, running to the house. Billy’s too exhausted to think straight, but he thinks she might have tripped one of the wires he and Hopper had carefully skirted by the way she screeches “God damnit, Hop!”

She’s clearly trying to calm herself down as she comes in the house, breathing deeply and lowering her voice as she asks what happened, where Hopper found him, how long ago did it happen. He closes his eyes, rests as Hopper murmurs to her. He can’t fall asleep, really, but he feels like he’s somewhere safe for the first time since he woke up. There are cold little fingers on his hand, careful only to touch his palm.

The creepy kid whispers to him, “Your papa. He is not here. You are—safe.” Even though she kinda makes him nervous, with what Hopper said about some abusive dad and magic powers like he’s in some cartoon, having her next to him is nice, soothing or whatever.

Joyce washes her hands like, eight times before she touches him, and she has Hopper literally watching water boil (“I need it right below boiling, Jim, so let it come to a boil and then shut it off.”). He hasn’t been fussed over like this, by a mom and not hospital nurses or some chick who’s worried he’s gonna get a gross-looking scar, in forever. It’s nice too, even if it’s weird.

She makes him straighten his left arm, tries to whip it around and back in or something, and when he almost passes out, she calls Hopper back over from where he’s actually, truly, waiting for the water to boil.

“Hop, I’m not strong enough to get it back in place. It’s been out for a while and the soft tissue around it is all swollen, so I think you’re gonna have to do it.” Billy must have some pansy-ass look on his face, ‘cause she looks at him all nice and sad and clicks his tongue like all moms seem to do and goes “I promise, once it’s back in place it won’t hurt nearly so bad, honey.”

Hopper seems like he’s nervous, but once Joyce shows him how exactly he’s gotta move it, he and Billy work together to pop it back in. She was right; now that it’s back where it’s supposed to be, there’s just a dull kind of throbbing. Compared to the white-hot agony it was before, Billy’s practically in heaven. 

Joyce makes him lean forward enough to get his shirt off; thank God he hadn’t changed out of his button-down earlier or he’d probably just have to die quickly, get it over with. As it is, it sucks, but he’s not gonna complain. She’s being way nicer to him than she should be. When he sucks in a sharp breath as she turns him to get his other arm out of its sleeve, she realizes about his ribs.

“Fuck,” she mutters, digging around in her first aid kit-Mary Poppins bag hybrid. “El, honey, will you find me a big sturdy piece of paper? An album insert or something?” He hears paper shuffling, opens his eyes (well, eye) far enough to see her rolling the lyrics sheet from REO Speedwagon’s _Hi Fidelity_ into a tube. She puts it to his chest, makes him breathe as deep as he can while she listens to the other end.

“Okay, it doesn’t sound like there’s fluid in your lungs, I think? So, uh, we’re just gonna wrap your ribs up super tight. There’s not a lot else I can do; you aren’t going to be able to breathe real deep, Billy, but you probably don’t want to, huh?” She doesn’t sound super sure, but if he had wanted somebody to fix him up right he would’ve let Hopper take him to the emergency room. 

She’s looking at him all nice, full of sympathy, though, and smoothing his hair back from his face. God, moms are the best, Billy thinks, then makes himself think about anything else. He’s not gonna think about his mom again, not right now.

“What’d’ya think, Joyce,” he slurs, “‘m I still gonna be prettier than King Steve once the bruises fade?”

Her face gets quiet, sad, and she pats his chest reassuringly. “Yeah, honey, you’re gonna be a looker again really soon. El, will you grab some frozen peas for his eye?”

She makes him sit up, still, lean forward so she can wrap an Ace bandage so tight around his chest that he’s surprised he can breathe at all. It does make the pain in his ribs ease a little, though.

Joyce and El clean him up, real slow and easy. El seems really interested, not afraid to touch the bloody rag Joyce gives her to go rinse out in the nearly-boiling water or poke at his cuts once they’re cleaned out. She’s gentle, but her little fingers are so damn cold. Hopper needs to get the girl some mittens, _shit_. 

When El taps her on the shoulder, points out the awkward set of the fingers on Billy’s right hand, Joyce gasps a little, brings her own hand to her mouth like she’s watching a scary movie or something. She goes to wash her hands again, and Billy can hear her whispering with Hopper, nervous.

“Billy,” she says carefully when she comes back over, “I don’t know how well I’m gonna be able to fix your fingers. Jim—I mean, Hopper—can take you out to the hospital in Fort Wayne if you want, they’ll get them set better than I can.

 “I can do it, if you want me to,” (She sounds like she’d rather he said no, but the set of her eyes is determined.) “but it’ll hurt, a lot, and I can’t promise they’ll work right once they heal. What do you want to do, sweetie?”

What he _really_ wants to do is take a goddamn nap. He’s gotta deal with this first, probably. He sits quiet for a second, closing his good eye and forcing his brain to think for, like, half a second. One of his little toes broke once and didn’t get set right, didn’t really get set at all, and it hurts like hell when he wears his shoes too small.

The thought of going to a hospital though, of trying to find some bullshit to say to charm the nurses into not worrying about his safety or calling the cops or child protective services or whatever, is really and truly just—overwhelming. Getting here had been hard enough, and he didn’t have to answer any stupid fuckin’ questions.

“Hop,” he croaks, “You got any hard liquor in here? If an amateur’s gonna fix this mess,” he holds up his gnarly hand, “I’m gonna need to be a lot more fucked up.”

He remembers El’s still here, and she’s just a kid, really, so he corrects himself, “I mean, I’m gonna need to be a lot more, uh, messed up.”

Hop shoots him a look, like, _cool it_ , then goes into one of the other rooms, comes out with a dusty old bottle of Jack. How fucking predictable, he thinks, as Hop holds the open bottle in front of his face. Billy moves like he’s gonna grab it, but his right hand is a tragedy and Joyce has already strapped his other arm to his chest to keep him from fucking it up again.

The bubblegum scent of Jack floats towards him from the neck of the bottle in Hopper’s outstretched hand. He shoots Hopper a look, all _if you ever tell anyone about this I’ll kill you_ , and puts his mouth on the bottle. He gets in a good few pulls, alcohol stinging his split lip, before Hop takes the bottle away.

Swishing the Jack around his mouth, he remembers his loose tooth, wiggles it a little like he did when he was a kid losing his milk teeth. Joyce doesn’t warn him, just cracks one of his knuckles as she pulls the first joint of his index finger back where it’s supposed to be.

He surprises himself with how loud he bellows. By some miracle of God, he doesn’t curse. Before he can tense up any more, she grinds his middle finger between her own fingers, hard, gets the middle knuckle set right. It hurts so bad he barely feels her realign his pinky, which is probably a blessing and a curse.

“Okay,” she blows out the breath she was clearly holding, sending her bangs flying, “El, I’m gonna need you to get me the white tape in the bag and wrap all his fingers together, once around the middle of his fingers, once at the base. It’s not perfect, Billy, but you're gonna have to live with it for a few days to make sure they set.”

When they’re finally done torturing him, Joyce and Hopper get Billy laying down on his back on the couch, his ankles propped on the far arm. El starts absolutely piling him under blankets, and he hears Hopper say “Wait, El, those are the blankets from my bed. Put ‘em back. Then go to bed, it's way past your bedtime."

She makes a wordless, mocking noise, but takes off the last few blankets anyways. He’s already sweating a little, but the Jack and the pain are making his head swim; he’s almost on the edge of sleep now.

A door closes, presumably the one that goes to El’s room, and Hopper offers Joyce a beer. He hears the _cr-chuk_ of cans opening, and Hopper mutters _slainte_ under his breath.

“Hop,” Joyce says, “What the _hell_ happened? Who did this to him?”

“I fucked up.” Hopper’s voice is hard, unkind but not directed at her. “His dad’s a real piece of work. I shoulda known better, but what with El and the other kids and, God, _Bob…_ ”

He trails off, and then there are some weird snuffly noises Billy eventually figures out are Joyce’s, sobs and sniffs muffled in cloth.

“I just—” she starts, voice thick with tears, “He—he saved us. And we let him _die_ like that, _alone_.” She bursts into sobs again, too loud now to be mistaken for anything else. Hopper shushes her, but nice, comforting, like you hush a crying kid as you hold them close and pet their naive little head.

“I’m taking care of it,” Hopper says, his voice gruffer than normal. Is he crying? Doesn’t he know that real men don’t cry? Jesus, whoever this Bob guy was, he must’ve been a saint or some shit. “We’ve already gotten him through the morgue, I’m going to meet with his family tomorrow to get the funeral set up. Do you, uh, want to be there?”

There’s a long silence, then a sharp sniff like she’s pulling herself back together. “Yeah,” she whispers.

The last bit of conversation Billy catches as he’s floating backwards into sleep is about him. He wants to fight back to consciousness, to hear what they’ve got to say about what a stupid piece of shit he is and how pathetic he is, to have nowhere else to go.

“Why did you bring him here?” she’s saying, “what about El? Now he knows. Is it...well, is it _safe_?”

“I don’t know if it’s safe,” he sighs, “but I couldn’t just leave him out there to die. Even if he’s an idiot kid now, he doesn’t always have to be. I can give him safety, and if he decides he wants to be better, I can at least try to help him. You know Bert did the same for me, when I…”

Billy falls asleep easy, listening to them worry over him and El and Will and all the other kids.

El, the fuckin’ weirdo, is sitting on the floor next to the couch when he wakes up, staring at him. He’s so, _so_ sweaty, and he feels, hand to god, like he got run over with a damn mack truck.

“Morning.” she says. “Want an Eggo?” She gestures to the plate in front of her, stacked high with a tower of waffles.

"El,” Hopper chides, “He almost certainly doesn’t want an Eggo. He got the snot beat outta him yesterday. Hargrove, you want an egg or some bread or something? I would offer ya oatmeal but _someone_ thinks it’s an abomination and won’t let me keep it in the house.”

“Waffle,” Billy manages to say through his cracked, dry mouth, “Water first, please.” He feels like someone left him out in Death Valley to dry into jerky. El, very solicitously, holds up a cup of water, moves the Silly Straw (which, frankly, is a little insulting) around so he can get it in his mouth, and lets him drain all the liquid out of it. She hand-feeds him a quarter of an Eggo, too, which is a little weird at first but honestly? kinda sick. He’s never feeding himself again, he’ll be like Dionysus or whoever, have beautiful people feed him grapes one-by-one.

He’s struck, suddenly, with the strongest urge to pee he’s maybe ever had. Slowly, he pushes himself up with his right palm to sit normally, blankets falling in an avalanche to the ground at his feet. He can open his eye a little, too, and it’s so nice to have depth perception again. 

“Bathroom,” he grunts. Hopper smiles a little, jerks a thumb into one of the rooms.

“Through that door, to your right. Please don’t pass out in there, I don’t wanna have to explain to the EMTs why you’re bleeding out with your business flopping around.”

El scrunches up her nose in disgust. He can feel her eyes on her, the whole agonizing walk to the bathroom. _Fuckin’ A_ , he’s sore. He manages to get his dick out of his pants, and the bliss he feels as he pees is all-encompassing. He worries for a second that he really will pass out, just from how good it feels to relieve his bladder.

As he hobbles back into the living room, letting himself fall heavily onto the couch, Hopper brings over a plate of scrambled eggs, sets it on the coffee table. He has this look on his face like _it’s time for a serious conversation_ , and Billy braces himself to get kicked out, get dropped back off at his car and told to _be more careful next time_.

“Listen, son,” he starts, and Billy’s stomach drop. At least he got one night in a safe, warm place. It’s better than nothing. “I have some stuff I gotta go do in town today, a couple people I need to meet with, some paperwork.

“I’m gonna leave you here with El. She has the phone numbers in case of emergency. Don’t forget, she’ll kill you in a second if you start actin’ dumb. And don’t try to run off before I get back. You’d just get lost in the woods and die of starvation or something else stupid.

“When I get back, we’re gonna have a talk about how things are gonna be, or, uh, how they could be different.” Hopper looks awkward; clearly he isn’t great at talking like a real human to El, so maybe he just really doesn’t know how to interact with people between the ages of twelve and nineteen.

“El,” Hop barks, and she turns her calm, deep eyes on him. “You’ve gotta be responsible for Billy today. And you’re only allowed to play my Beatles records _once each_. Billy’ll tell me if you try to repeat ‘em.”

She nods, and Hop stares at Billy for a second before he realizes he’s supposed to nod too. He does, and Hopper nods back, a little awkward, before he heads out the door.

It’s weird, at first, being alone with El. She wanders off once she finishes sharing her waffles, to do the dishes he figures. Billy kind of dozes for a while; he wakes up briefly to the plane noises of _Back in the U.S.S.R._ , but falls back asleep quickly, in the space between _Dear Prudence_ and _Glass Onion_.

She wakes Billy up probably an hour or two later, judging by the sun streaming bright through the cracks in the shutters.

“Want lunch?” she whispers, holding a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich approximately an inch from his face. He could get used to being fed, he thinks, until she smears peanut butter all down his chin by accident.

She breaks into giggles, and, after a second, he laughs too. God, he wishes he could be so happy about something so stupid. He thinks for a second; the last time he can remember being just, like, entirely _happy_ was probably the first day he got the Camaro running real good.

He’d bought it, an absolute junker that didn’t even hardly run long enough to get it from the junkyard to his neighbor’s garage, the day he turned sixteen. Mark, the neighbor, had been a pretty chill dude. Neil hadn’t liked him, though whether that was because he was Native or because he kissed the guys who slept over a little too close to the mouth when they left in the morning was anybody’s guess. Mark, when Billy’d asked if he was worried about Neil being an asshole, had just laughed, brushing him off.

“Guys like that, they aren’t gonna like me no matter what. So long as I like myself, I ain’t worried about what any small-minded asshole’s gonna do. There’s no use in worrying, really.” Handing Billy a wrench, he’d pulled him over to show him where the water pump leaked.

That had been the worst year, probably, of Billy’s life. Lost in grief over his mom, dealing with Neil who was pissed about Mark, making sure he was out of the way whenever Susan came over so Neil could make himself look good—he doesn’t miss being sixteen at all.

When he and Mark had finally taken the Cammy down the PCH, gotten it up to a cool 90 miles an hour, Billy’d felt like he was flying. Nothing could touch him while he drove, not so long as he had gas money and an AC/DC cassette in the tape player.

Right now, though, the absurdity of his situation catches up with him for the first time. A little girl with magical powers has just covered his face in peanut butter because he can’t feed himself because his dear old dad decided to beat the shit out of him; he’s lying on the chief of police’s couch, already preparing to give him shit for the full Hank Williams discography Hopper’s apparently collected over the years, because no one else he knows would do anything but kick his ass out on the pavement.

He starts laughing, can’t stop; he’s struggling for breath where his ribs are wrapped, tears running down his face openly as he laughs himself sick. He laughs so long and hard it turns into crying, big huge sobs of grief. El joins him at first, slows down when he starts crying in earnest. He’s almost nauseous by the time he gets himself under control. She looks a little uncomfortable, not nervous but like she has no idea what to do when somebody cries.

“You want water?” she says, offering him water from the same stupid silly straw as before. The water helps, though, and he brings his right hand up to brush away what’s left of the tears. It’s kind of a pain, trying to keep his fingers still so they don't hurt too bad, but he manages well enough.

“It’s okay. To cry.” El says, sounding a little rehearsed, like she’s heard the same thing a hundred times before from somebody else. “Lets the bad out.” She pats the back of his left hand, very gently.

“Boys don’t cry, Elle. Haven’t you heard the Cure?” he manages, still trying to catch his breath a little.

“The cure.” She sounds kinda confused. “Cure for what?”

“Nah, stupid, the band,” he says automatically. The look on his face after he says it makes him feel—pretty bad, actually. Shit, he can’t just treat her like he treats Max, not that he treats Max all that well, really. “Well, uh, I mean—you aren’t stupid. Hopper probably just plays you old-man music. Nothing too fun, huh? Does he even have any Stones in his record collection?"

She stares back at him blankly, like _obviously there aren’t any rocks in his record crate_. Jeez, he knows her old dad wasn’t great, but it’s like she was raised in a lab or something. Fuck it, if nobody’s ever given her a real musical education, he will. 

“Go look in the record crates, see if any of the covers say The Rolling Stones on ‘em.” She flips through the records, pulling out two albums.

“Some...girls. Or ex-ill on main street.” she reads off, looking to him for his opinion.

“Eh, _Exile on Main Street_ ’s good, but I like _Some Girls_ better. Plus I’m gettin’ bored of the Beatles. Go for it.”

El holds up the cover for him to see, points to Mick Jagger’s red lips. “Lipstick?” she says, like she’s looking for confirmation. He can just make out a tattoo on her arm, _011_. Is that why they call her El? Jesus, they _did_ treat her like a science experiment. No wonder she's such a weirdo.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “He looks good in makeup, don’t he?”

She puts on the record, drops the arm like an expert. As the harmonica filters in, she purses her lips, looks closer at the album sleeve, like she’s trying to decide whether Jagger _does_ look good or not.

“He does. Are men—allowed? To wear makeup?” she says finally. She sounds confused, a little.

“Well, my pops might say different, but I think so. There were plenty of pretty boys wearing makeup at the concerts I went to back in Cali.”

Matt had been helpful in that department too, taking him to the Starwood or Circus Disco or Madam Wong’s just about every weekend, passing him tequila shots and phone numbers scrawled on bar napkins. If he’d noticed Billy slip away into the bathroom, come back smeared with purple lipstick or sparkling cheekbones and dazed with kisses, he never said anything, just left condoms on the glovebox of the Camaro and talked about all the safe sex he was having.

El nods, look on her face like _good enough for me_. Her eyes get really wide when she hears _Beast of Burden_ , and by the time Mick starts singing _sex and sex and sex and sex_ on _Shattered_ , Billy’s laughing himself sick again, just at the shocked look on her face. It’s alright, as far as these things go. They listen to _Exile on Main Street_ next, and when Hopper comes in the front door, El is bopping around to _Shake Your Hips_ , showing off a frightening lack of rhythm.

“You been corrupting my daught—El while I’m gone?” Hopper jokes, glancing at El when he almost calls her his daughter. Huh, this “adoption” he was talkin’ about last night must be a whole lot less official than Billy thought it was.

When Billy just smiles at him, feeling his lip crack open a little, Hopper goes on, “Not that I’m all that surprised. You ain’t a Beatles fan, then?”

“I like the _White Album_ ,” Billy replies, “And _Abbey Road_ is pretty good. Their earlier stuff is just so cookie-cutter, ya know? The Stones’ve always been a little dirtier.

“Plus,” he adds as an afterthought, “I can’t believe I’m getting crap about my musical taste from a guy who’s got every Hank Williams album ever made. Talk about boring old man music.”

Hopper scoffs out a laugh, tousles El’s hair as he passes her.

“Hey, kid, will you go heat us up some dinner while I talk to Billy here about why he needs to respect the musical genius of the classics?” She narrows her eyes at him, then flounces away into the kitchen. After a minute, the volume knob on the record player turns itself up. Jesus, her powers are wild.

“El!” Hop complains, “Just because you’ve _got_ powers don’t mean you gotta use ‘em every five minutes. You’ll wear yourself out.”

He rolls his eyes at Billy, like, _you see the attitude on this kid?_ , then pushes the armchair closer to the couch where Billy’s been sitting on almost continuously since last night when El fucking _floated him over here with her mind_. God, she’s so cool. He wonders what else she can do, and also a little bit about whether or not he’s gonna fuse into the couch before he gets better.

“Alright, son,” Hopper says, suddenly serious, “I’ve got some ideas about how this is gonna work. You ready to hear ‘em?”

Billy isn’t, he thinks, but he nods anyways. Time to face the music, see if he can get all the way back to Cali on the cash in his glovebox.

“You’re welcome to stay here, if you’re willing to follow a few rules.” Billy’s fucking—shocked. Hopper would let him _stay_? After he’s been such a good-for-nothing asshole to just about everybody in town? After he threatened the brat pack and fought Steve? What the _fuck_ , he thinks, and it must show on his face.

“You’re gonna have to get your shit together, start makin’ amends, but I don’t think, at the heart of it, that you’re a bad kid. When I was your age, I—” Hopper pauses for a second, like he’s trying to decide if he’s gonna say something, then thinks better of it.

“I’ve seen a lotta kids like you," he goes on. "You’re smart, I saw your transcripts earlier. You need somewhere safe, something to do with that brain so you haven’t got time to make trouble. I talked to Hutch down at the auto shop, he’s willing to take you on a few days a week for some extra cash if you’re willing to. 

“I’m also gonna make you help the kid,” he points his thumb behind him towards the kitchen, “get ready to take her tests. She’s gotta take some big test before next school year, see if she’s ready to go to real school, and I don’t remember the last time I had to _do_ long division, much less teach somebody else how to do it.

“The cabin’s small, but there’s a loft we haven’t been using for anything but storage. Once you’re able to, we’ll clear it out, make you a little space for your stuff and a bed.

“You get your act together, apologize to the kids, _apologize to Steve_ ,” he stresses, “And hold a job and help El, you can stay. You think you can do that?”

Billy has to stop and think for a second. He won’t have time for school, a job, teaching El, and the basketball team, probably, but he’s a helluva lot better at basketball than anyone else in this hick town, and he won’t miss having to harass Harrington about planting his fuckin’ feet. What about Max, though? What about _Neil_?

Hopper must see the thoughts flying through Billy’s head, because the next thing he says is “Neil’s not gonna bother you.”

He holds out some official-lookin’ paperwork, and Billy sees his name written a bunch of times, sees Neil’s scrawled signature at the bottom of a page, his messy initials sprinkled at the end of a few paragraphs.

“I got Neil to sign away his parental rights, and we had a real good talk about what _exactly_ I'll charge him with if he tries anything. If you don’t want me to take you in, I can pass these along to the county social worker, get you set up in foster care until you turn eighteen. You can still keep the job, even if you don’t wanna stay here. Hutch’s getting old, needs a fresh pair of eyes to help him find the right size socket and shit.”

“If I can still drop Max off and pick her up from school,” Billy says finally, talking before he even really knows what he’s gonna say, “I’ll stay here. The kid’s gonna need somebody else who knows what it’s like to live in that house. And if he touches her or Susan, I’m probably gonna haveta’ kill him.” 

Hopper has a face like a raincloud; he looks at Billy like _not if I kill him first_.

“I’ll go talk to him tomorrow, and I’ll call in to the front office and let ‘em know she’s gonna be riding there and back with you from now on.” Hopper claps him on the shoulder, apparently having forgotten the dislocation last night.

“Shit, sorry, son.” Hopper winces. “I know it ain’t fun. Joyce said she’ll be over tomorrow night after she gets off work to rebandage you. You feelin’ up to school tomorrow?” Billy nods, anxious to be back to whatever normal he’s got, back to talking shit with Carol and Tommy and flirting with the teachers, back to hiding his math test score from the girl next to him who thinks he’s been cheating off her. (He hasn’t, but if she saw how much higher his scores are than hers, she’d be snitching to the teacher anyways.)

“Oh, and if you’ve got time before you come back to the house tomorrow, run by the body shop. I already told Hutch you won’t be able to work until your hand and your shoulder are workin’ right, but he said he wants to see how much you know about everything.”

El hollers “DINNER,” at the top of her lungs, even though the cabin’s probably like five hundred square feet, total, and she could probably hear their whole conversation.

Hopper rolls his eyes again, grasps Billy’s forearm and pulls him up to stand. “Alright, kid, inside voice. What’d you heat up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's part one! I'm not sure how many parts this is going to be; I've got the whole story outlined out but I have no idea how long it'll take to get there. 
> 
> This is the first fanwork I've written in (yikes!) ten years. Basically what happened is I started thinking about Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington and then I made about sixty-five playlists (well, six) that I'll share as they become relevant. I tried to keep my music choices pre-1986 but there are a few from 1986 and a few from later that I just couldn't _not_ include. (WHY did _I Think We're Alone Now_ have to come out in 1987??)
> 
> The title of this fic is from "Stand," by REM. The chapter title is from Kate Bush's magnificent "Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God)."
> 
> #### Spoilers/Warnings:
> 
> Billy is physically assaulted (including choking) by Neil. The assault leaves him seriously injured, but with no life-threatening injuries. Neil is also verbally abusive towards him, including using a few homophobic slurs.


	2. look at me! (i'm in tatters)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billy shocks Nancy Wheeler, gets yelled at repeatedly, and doesn't really understand the rules of _Jeopardy!_

He’s almost late to school the next morning; he and Hopper both forget that his car’s still out at the quarry, and Hop turns his flashers on, going twenty over and swearing under his breath, as they race the clock.

Hopper helps him get into a new button-down from the bag of clothes in his car, buttons it up almost all the way, with some real significant look Billy’s probably supposed to gain some deeper meaning from or some shit. He has to change his jeans in the early morning sunlight next to his car after Hopper drives away, hoping that nobody drives by and gets an eyeful of his pale ass. Getting his jeans zipped is a fuckin’ nightmare, but he gets it done eventually. 

He rewards himself with a little Black Flag and a few Newport Kings on the way to school, yelling along to _Six Pack_ as he pulls into the parking lot. Fuckin’ Henderson, the clown, is loitering around the front doors, and when he clocks Billy, he sprints inside. Whatever, Billy figures, if they’re plotting something he’ll just deal with it when they try to ambush him at the water fountain or whatever. Fuckin’ nerds. 

As he struggles to open his locker with his off hand, who comes to stand next to him, radiating frigid bitch energy, but Nancy fucking Wheeler.

“How can I help you, Miz Wheeler?” he smirks, a little sleazy, turning to face her with his English notebook and the battered classroom copy of _Grapes of Wrath_ they’re reading right now. 

“How dare you—wait, what happened to your face?” Her pretty little mouth is all ugly and small now, pinched with disgust. “No, nevermind, you’re an asshole and I don’t care. How could you hurt Steve? All he was trying to do was protect the kids from—”

“Alrighty there, ice princess,” he leers, slamming his locker shut (as best he can, give his two sad hands) and turning away towards their English class, “I don’t need the lecture. What happened between Steve and I is none of your damn business. 

“Besides, I wouldn’t have thought you cared about Steve, considering you’re _sleeping with Byers_ ,” he hisses. 

“Billy!” she almost shrieks. She pops him in the left bicep by reflex, and when he lets out a little grunt of pain, she must realize he’s holding it tight against his body, clearly injured. Nancy has the decency not to look ashamed, though, just lifts her chin higher up. Huh, she’s got a little more spitfire in her than Billy would’ve thought. She’s gonna fall over backwards, though, if she doesn’t quit lifting her nose at him; he snorts with laughter at the idea and keeps walking. 

“Billy, that’s _not true_.” From the pitch of her voice and the blush rising up her neck as she follows him down the hall, it is. He’s not really interested in getting hit any more for at least, like, a week, though, so he keeps his big mouth firmly shut. 

“Just because Steve and I are _taking a break_ doesn’t mean I can’t care about his wellbeing, it’s called having friends, not that _you’d_ know the difference. Besides, he needs _somebody_ to care. So what the _hell_ were you doing, I mean, you hit him over the head with a _plate_ , Jeez, you could have killed him.” Her voice gets higher with just about every word as she clatters along behind him. If he keeps riling her up, maybe she’ll start talking in that dog-whistle range and he won’t have to listen to her anymore. He turns around, suddenly exhausted with her _innocent choir girl_ bullshit.

“Ya really wanna know, Wheeler? I was fuckin’ _flirting_.” The look on her face is priceless, mouth gaping open like a landed fish, and he shuts the door to their English class on her just as the bell rings. Mrs. Peterson gives her a tardy, too, which might just be the best thing that happens all day.

 

The school day passes slow, just like it always does. He has a test in US history which goes fine, and a pop quiz in Spanish class that doesn’t. At lunch, he quits the basketball team, tells Coach he’s gotta get a job to help with the bills and that someone needs to remind Harrington to plant his damn feet. 

Billy doesn’t see _King Steve_ all day, which is kinda weird. He’s pretty sure Harrington’s here somewhere; Jessie and Mandy, the girls who sit in front of him in chemistry, are gossiping about how messed up Steve looked this morning through Mr. Lewis' whole lecture on covalent bonds. They look back at him in unison at one point, eyes cold on his bruises and his taped up hand. He’s not surprised when some fuckin’ freshman comes up to him between classes later, asks if Harrington’s the one who beat him up so bad. Billy pushes the freshman into the lockers, hard, and is so focused on not crying out like a fuckin’ girl about how bad it hurts that he walks away without answering the kid, not that he’d know what to say.

He’s trying to unbutton his shirt one-handed as he walks towards the Camaro after the final bell. Sinclair is standing with Max in the grass near the parking lot, holding hands like they’re in some romantic movie and he’s sending her to her death or somethin’ stupid like that. 

He sees Billy first, leans in to press an awkward kiss to her cheek and hops on his bike, pedaling like crazy out of the parking lot. God, was he ever that awkward? There’s no goddamn way. He can’t have been that nervous, at least not about kissing girls after school. Jesus. 

“Max,” Billy starts as he reaches her and the car, then stops. What is he gonna say to her? Maybe taking her to and from school was a bad idea. It’s far to ride her board every day, though, and he’s not sure the bus route goes all the way out to their house. 

She won’t look at him. Fuckin’--great. Awesome. _Sick_. He unlocks the car, slides in gingerly, lights up another cigarette while he waits for her to get her panties untwisted and get in.

“Max, get in the car. I’m gonna take you home.” Billy says finally, after he’s finished his cig, thrown his butt on the ground outside the car. She still hasn’t even glanced over. Je-sus, she must really be mad. 

“Max!” he yells, and she jumps, looks over at him automatically. Her face is pinched, and if she had the same crazy powers as El he’d probably already be dead, by the look in her eyes. She doesn’t, though, so after she glares at him for a while, she moves onto the pavement, drops her board, and skates off. He pulls out too, follows next to her. 

“Max, I’m taking you home, even if I have to drive five miles an hour so you can keep up on your board. It’s non-negotiable.”

She looks over at him, color rising on her neck, but keeps on pushing herself forward. Her ears are the ugly red they get when she’s really upset, and he only has to idle next to her for another couple yards before she blows the fuck up at him. 

“What the FUCK do you care how I get home? Lucas was gonna ride home with me until you came over, but he ran away ‘cause you’re a RACIST ASSHOLE. I thought since you LEFT ME with your ASSHOLE FATHER I wouldn’t have to see you anymore.” 

Well, he grimaces to himself, she’s not really wrong. He did leave her in that horrible house, with the ghost of a woman Susan’s become and the looming threat of Neil.

“Max, just get in the friggin’ car so I can explain, jee-zus. I’m not gonna yell at you out my car window. It ain’t civilized.” She boards next to him for another few yards, then flips her board up and starts yanking on the door handle like an animal, which she knows he fuckin’ hates, until he can get it unlocked, face still murderous. 

“Well? I’m in the car. Talk, I guess,” she spits, still avoiding his eyes. 

“Buckle, please,” Billy says primly, then brake-checks her when she’s moving too slowly about it for his taste. She smacks him, hard, across the arm, but she does at least check to make sure it’s not his bad one first. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. 

“Max, listen,” he starts, still kinda lost for words. “I just—Neil would have killed me. I hate that I gotta leave you alone in there, and you gotta tell me if he hits you or grabs you or anything. I’ll figure something out for us, make sure you don’t have to be around him. He just—he don’t like me. He never has, and there’s nothin’ I can do to get him off my ass. If I go back in the house and he’s there, it’s over for me. I disobeyed him, I talked back to him, and worst of all, I left.” He’s real quiet, almost too quiet to hear over the Violent Femmes whining through the sound system.

“Hopper—the chief, he, uh knows. That Neil’s the one who did most of this. And he talked to Neil, and I don’t know what he said, but I’m gonna be staying with him, at least until I fuck it up and he kicks me out too. So Neil knows I snitched, and it’d be worse for everyone if I had come back.”

“I get that, I’m not an idiot, Billy,” she replies, all mean. “I mean, why are you still trying to be nice to me or whatever when you know I’m never gonna forgive you? You hurt Steve, and you hurt Lucas, and you did it because you were more interested in following Neil’s orders than you cared about me!” Her voice gets louder and louder, until she’s almost shouting. She punches at the radio to turn it off, then turns to him, angry tears running down her face. 

“Everybody I care about LEAVES, and you’re no better, especially because you were a HUGE DICK to all my friends RIGHT BEFORE YOU LEFT ME ALONE,” she bellows at him. 

“Max, if I had wanted to leave you, I would already be halfway to California.” This is, clearly, the wrong thing to say; she starts to swell up like a bullfrog or something.

“But I didn’t, because I don’t!” he hurries to add, trying to avoid a nuclear meltdown in the passenger seat of the Camaro. “I can’t be there, Max, you know that, you know he’d kill me. I can be here, though, and I can drive you to school and help you finish your math homework on the way. I’ll even drive you and your shitty friends to the arcade or whatever. 

“Even if you aren’t my real sister, I care about you, shit.” She scoffs at him, full of piss and vinegar. 

“I do! Even if you are a freak with freaky friends.” Max punches him again; he deserves that, probably. 

“‘M still mad at you,” she mumbles, once she gets her whole...face situation under control. “And you’re still a racist. And an asshole. Lucas is never gonna forgive you, and I’m not gonna forgive you until he does. That’s only fair. It’s not like Cali here; his dad gets treated like shit even though he’s more educated than, like, 99 percent of the people in this hick town, and did you know the day manager at the general store follows his mom around when she goes in to shop? And then you come in and _you know better_ , you know how many awesome black and Mexican and Asian people lived in our old neighborhood, and you’re _still racist_.” 

“I was trying to protect you,” he says as they pull into the driveway. “You know Neil’s, like, actually a racist. If he catches the two of you together…”

“The only way he’s gonna know is if you tell him, assface,” she says, eyes like thunder. “And if that happens, I’ll tell everyone why we had to move out here.”

“Max, you wouldn’t fuckin’ dare.” Billy’s voice is real low, deadly serious. “You know what’ll happen to me then?” His blood is boiling, and he has to dig the nails of his left hand into his palm, real hard, to keep from hurting her. Doesn’t she understand? The lovely citizens of Hawkins, Indiana, don’t seem real keen on queers, or on anybody else different, for that matter. He’ll be killed, really and truly. 

“If Lucas gets hurt because of you,” she fires back, just as serious, “I won’t care what happens to you.” She throws the door open, real dramatic, grabs all her shit, and slams the door closed again, just as dramatic.

“You can pick me up tomorrow morning, but I’m not gonna talk to you at school. Not until you pay for what you’ve done.” God, she’s like a mini supervillain or some shit. Creepy-ass kid. 

____________________________________________________________

Billy drives easier on the way to the body shop, shoulders a little looser, even though Max is actually, for real blackmailing him. Neil won’t be the only motherfucker Billy’s worried about being killed by, if she does tell. At least she’s talking to him, he thinks, and turns the radio back on. He yells along to _Prove My Love_ , feels a little bit less like the world’s biggest fuck-up than he has in a long while. 

 

The Violent Femmes has been his first concert; he’d snuck out the back door while Neil had been yelling at the Dodgers game on TV and flinging his arm around, careless of the Miller Lite slopping down his hand onto the floor. Mark had been talking about some band from fucking Wisconsin, of all places, for like three weeks, and the shiner on Billy’s eye was healed enough he could go out in public without scaring small children and their moms.

Mark, surprised to see him, had offered him the passenger seat of his ‘75 T-Bird and paid his cover at the Music Machine. Billy’d liked the singer’s whiny voice, and he and Mark had argued the whole way home about whether _Blister in the Sun_ was about having a crush on a guy or about masturbation. 

He had spent the $20 Susan gave him for his birthday on a t-shirt and an eight-track, and Neil hadn’t done anything when he’d slunk in the house at two AM but snore on the couch. The slap across the face the next morning stung, but remembering how much fucking fun he’d had made it hurt less, even as a pink imprint of Neil’s hand rose angry on his face. 

 

He’s been into the body shop once, to get the tires on Susan’s beater replaced because _women don’t know shit about cars, Billy, you’ve gotta do it all for ‘em_. The guy who runs the place, Hutch, seemed pretty nice then, knew what the hell he was talking about at least. Billy’s nervous now, walking in. He should’ve worn something nicer, re-buttoned the few buttons he’d gotten loose earlier. He looks like a burnout, and, to be fair, he kinda is one. Shit, he realizes suddenly, ridiculously, he needs to find someplace to hide his weed that isn’t literally in the actual Hawkins Chief of Police’s actual house. He’s on thin ice already, and Hop seems like kind of a stickler for the rules. 

“Hi, how can I help ya?” A voice asks from underneath a dirty Toyota Camry. Hutch rolls out from under the car, tries to wipe away the smear of oil off his cheek with a dirty hand and only smears it around worse. Hutch looks kinda like if you took a normal guy and stretched him out a few inches, real tall but a little skinny for a guy who works on cars. He’s got a mop of greasy brown hair, but his eyes are friendly enough as he takes in Billy’s pitiful appearance.

“Ah, Billy,” he exclaims, “So glad to hear you’re gonna be workin’ with me. How much do you know about cars?”

“Uh, some,” he says, embarrassed. “Usually depends on the car.”

“I bet,” says Hutch. “You must be changin’ the oil on that Camaro real regular, for it to purr that pretty. It’s a nice car; I’ve been a little jealous you haven’t brought it in so's I can take it for a spin. You able to change the oil on other cars?”

Billy nods, quick, trying to look capable, then blushes a little. Who’s he trying to impress, some hick mechanic in a backwoods town? He needs to tone it down, before people start getting the wrong idea about how much he cares about—well, _everything_. 

“Alright, so I’ll let you heal up, of course, but when you’re ready, come back up to the shop. I’ll have ya work a couple days a week after school, doin’ oil changes and fixin’ flats and shit. We’ll get you trained up on the harder stuff. 

“I’m gonna work you hard, you hear me? It won’t be easy, but I’ll pay you good, and I’ll try to keep you under fifteen hours a week. Hop said you’ve got a good brain in there, whatever hasn’t been scrambled by all the fightin’ you do, and I ain’t about to keep you from school. 

“So keep your grades up or whatever, and don’t lie to me, neither, cause all I gotta do is cut your hours and there goes your smokes money. What’s that thing get to the gallon, twenty five miles? Probably takes a lot to fill’er up, too.”

He’s honest, fair. Billy can’t argue with any of what he’s said, and so he walks over to where Hutch has his hand outstretched, picks up the least grimy rag he sees and wipes the big-ass grease stain off Hutch’s face as he shakes Hutch’s hand. Hutch bats the rag away, laughs, squeezes Billy’s fingers a little too hard for comfort. If Billy doesn’t stop feeling lighter, less like the world’s stuck on his shoulders like Atlas or whoever, he might float away. He’s not meant to have nice things, and if he gets complacent now, used to things going okay, it’s just gonna break him even harder when everything goes to shit. 

 

____________________________________________________________

 

It all goes to shit the next night, of course; he’s, like, the Oracle of Delphi for knowing when things will. 

This is why we can’t have nice things, he thinks to himself as he chainsmokes menthols out in the dark-ass fuckin’ woods. Hopper’d sent him out basically as soon as he’d come in the door, something about El being on her worst behavior; when Billy hadn’t moved quick enough, Hopper had pushed him out the front door, locked it behind him. 

The first night at Hopper’s cabin, or the second, technically, had been alright. He’d started figuring out what El needed to learn before she could pass her test, where she was at now. She’s got a lot of studying to do, but she isn’t dumb or nothin’, just hasn’t been exposed to algebra and _Jane Eyre_ and shit, the stuff you’re supposed to learn that doesn’t really help you in the long run. Hopper had put on a Hank Williams record, probably just to piss him off, but they’d all watched an episode of _Jeopardy!_ El had recorded earlier in the day after dinner. 

Hopper said something about it helping El learn important information, but from the way he yelled at the TV, Hopper was probably the most invested viewer in the house. El had teased Billy for every wrong answer, making pretend she knew all the answers from her own head and not by watching the show earlier, when it aired.

When Joyce had come over to check on him, she’d been pleasantly surprised with his progress and stuff. He’s gonna have to wait like two weeks before he starts really doing stuff with his shoulder, which is less time than he would’ve thought. He does have to wear this lame sling she’s brought him for a week, though, and his fingers are gonna take almost twice as long to heal. 

She retaped his fingers, too, two together rather than all four, so he has this weird crab claw until they heal. It’s not great, but he can turn the wheel of his car a little better, and he’s getting used to holding his cigarettes between his middle and ring fingers. 

Tonight, it was different. Maybe El didn’t want Billy there anymore, or maybe Hopper was just pretending something was wrong so he could get Billy out. Maybe Billy’s just gonna have to write all his records off as a loss, take the cash he’s still got hidden in the glovebox and get a motel or something. Maybe Hopper’ll let him come back, eventually. 

Billy’s jacket’s in the house where he’d left it this morning by accident. He hadn’t missed it all day, the sun making a surprise appearance that had everybody at school wearing shorts and thin sweaters, but now that it’s dark out, the temperature’s dropping quick. He shivers, idly deciding whether to go drive around for a while or stay here. 

Maybe Hopper’ll change his mind eventually, let Billy back inside. Just because Billy’s done some experimenting and found out two people can fit in his backseat if they’re basically on top of each other doesn’t mean his car’s the most comfortable bed, and he hadn’t taken his comforter when he’d left his old place. 

The door swings open just as he’s decided to go for a drive, maybe head back toward the quarry. Some textbooks, the trashcan (complete with full trashbag), and what looks like a whole box of novelty coffee mugs Hopper has for some strange reason come flying out the door; Billy has to throw himself on the ground to avoid the shrapnel of shattered crockery. 

“God damn it, El, I’ll take all the waffles to work with me and I won’t buy any more for a week,” Hopper yells, sounding exasperated. 

All the lights in the house turn on, get real bright suddenly, and pop. Everything’s pitch black, this far from town, and Billy flicks his lighter on to avoid the broken glass from the mugs as he makes a tactical retreat; a drive sounds real great, right about now. Before he can make it to his car, though, he hears El break into these huge, wailing sobs. 

“You’re not my real papa! You don’t love me like you loved your real daughter. You even love Billy more than me, probably, because he had a hard life but he’s NORMAL.” She’s screaming; it sounds awful, like an animal that’s dying real slowly, begging for mercy. 

Hopper says something, muffled, like his head’s in his hands, and she shrieks again, wordless, primal. She’s hurting so loud he can’t hear anything else, can’t feel anything but aching pity. He can’t leave her like this, not when he knows that hollowed-out feeling so well.

“Hey, El,” Billy says, quiet; he’s not sure if he wants her to hear him or not. “Did you know, I’m adopted too?” 

Suddenly there’s silence in the house, in the woods all around the house too. 

“Billy?” she says into the darkness haltingly. “You are—adopted?” 

“Yeah, my mom died when I was younger. Neil—my papa or whatever—kept me, but only ‘cause he had to. He wasn’t very nice to me, either. He had to keep me, but he didn’t have to be nice or nothin’.”

She makes another wounded animal noise, but quieter this time. She seems calmer, so he picks through the minefield of broken shit to get up the stairs to the porch. 

“Even if Hopper’s not your real dad, at least he chose you. I don’t even know if he’s allowed to have you, and he keeps you, ‘cause he cares.”

“If he cared,” she whispers fiercely, “he would _listen to me_.” 

“Listen to you about what?” he says; even as he speaks, he’s not sure what the hell she’s gonna say, how he can help. At least he can tell that Hopper’s okay, now that he’s closer; he doesn’t look physically hurt, just pissed off and tired. 

“The dreams. Friends don’t lie. Friends don’t keep secrets. Hopper thinks. I’m lying about the dreams.” Man, he’s really gonna have to work on her grammar, he thinks absurdly. Now isn’t the time for lesson planning. 

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, kiddo,” Hop sighs, face still in his hands, but the poisonous look on her face is worrying enough that Billy interrupts him.

“I bet he just doesn’t understand, El. Sometimes grownups don’t get it. Hey, do you wanna listen to _Hey Jude_?” he asks, moving slowly toward the record player.

“If you sing.” she says, real flat and tired-sounding all of a sudden, and wipes the blood out from under her nose. Man, her crazy Steven King sci-fi powers are unreal. Cool as hell, don’t get him wrong, but weird, too. 

Damn, he thinks, this is gonna be hard to live down with Hopper. He can carry a tune, but he’s no Robert Plant or anything. Hopper’s gonna get an earful of bad karaoke, especially if El decides to yowl along with him like a cat in heat like she was doing earlier. 

It’s probably better than her smashing everything in the house, though, so he puts it on, sings quietly. She calms down some more, chest not heaving with shaky breaths anymore, and Hopper disappears into his bedroom. 

By the time he comes back into the living room and passes El an economy box of lightbulbs, she’s chilled out enough that she just takes the box, starts replacing the bulbs in the lamp on the side table, humming along, _nananana_ , under her breath tunelessly. She’s not afraid of the sharp edges, it looks like, and it seems like this isn’t an infrequent occurrence, given how Hopper looks tired and frustrated rather than fucking terrified, like Billy still kind of is. 

Jesus, she’s powerful. How much must Hopper spend on breakable shit? Maybe that’s why he’s got so many horrible mugs; this morning, Hopper had been slurping black coffee out of a _World’s Best Mom_ mug with flowers all over it, and while Hopper’s a pretty cool dude, he’s no World’s Best Mom or nothin’. 

El’s calmer, now, and Billy looks over at Hopper who’s got his head in his hands again, slumping in his armchair. Now or never, he thinks.

“I can pack my stuff up tonight, if you want me to go.” Hopper looks over at him sharpish, like he’s surprised. “I get it, you don’t want me here.”

Hopper’ mouth works for a second, and then he goes “Want you to go? I don’t—”

“You don’t have to lie,” Billy says, forcing the fucked-up fingers of his right hand to grab the gym bag of clothes he brought in yesterday afternoon. “It’s hard enough bringin’ in one messed up kid, an’ you’ve got two. I don’t blame ya.”

“Billy, kid,” Hopper says, real slow, like he’s talking to an idiot. “I don’t want you to leave. El’s been losing her shit since I got home half an hour ago. Sometimes she gets—overwhelmed, can’t control her emotions well enough to realize what she’s doing. Is this—do you think I’m mad because I locked you out?”

Billy doesn’t answer, just kicks at the ground a little, too embarrassed to admit it. Hopper’s right; it was a stupid fuckin’ thing for him to think, now that he’s got some distance from the situation. 

Hop must take this as some kind a answer, though, ‘cause he sighs again, rubs at the top of his nose like he’s getting a headache or something, and goes “I didn’t want you to get hurt, not more than you already are. 

“Sometimes El slams doors, or picks people up. She doesn’t _mean_ to hurt people, but sometimes it happens anyways. She always feels real bad about it afterwards, and it would’ve been a fuckin’ nightmare to deal with you being even more messed up and her bein’ hard on herself about it.

“Now, give me one of your gross menthols, Billy, I need about six cigarettes. _Jesus_ , El, I care about you a whole lot, but you test my patience sometimes. _I’m not mad at you_ ," he makes a point of saying, "I just need a damn break. Billy’ll help ya clean up, right, Billy?”

Hopper stalks out of the house, already lighting up the Newport Billy passes him. Billy grabs the trash can, starts picking up shards of the mugs smashed on the porch. El didn’t fuck up the fuses, apparently, because when she replaces the bulbs, all the lights come back on. There’s really not a whole lot of other stuff messed up in the house; it seems like she can control it a lot better than he’d expect, for a kid going through puberty and dealing with the shit it seems like she’s had to. 

“So,” he says, more for something to say than because he’s really all that interested, “What are the dreams about?” 

“Papa.” She sounds murderous. “Papa is still alive.” 

“Like, you’re having nightmares about him being alive?” He already regrets starting this conversation. What if he pisses her off and she loses it again?

“No. Papa is alive. He’s...looking for me.” 

“Does he know where you are? Like, does he know you’re in Hawkins?” Billy’s fought older guys before, and he’s already resigned himself to kicking this Papa guy's ass if he ever comes to town. 

God, he’s a nightmare. First he gives a shit about Max, now about some other snot-nosed, angsty tween? He doesn’t deserve the street cred he’s got, with such a big, obvious soft spot. 

“No. He’s—looking. Wants to find my body, not just my dreams.” He’s absolutely lost, now. What does she mean, _find her body_? And, for that matter, what the _hell _does she mean by _not just my dreams_?__

____

____

“Can he, uh, find you in your dreams?” he asks. Maybe she’ll explain more. 

“Yep. He found Kali, in her dreams. I asked her.” 

“Like, the goddess, Kali? The queen of destruction and death?” Maybe she’s schizo or something, talking about finding people in dreams and talking to goddesses and shit. 

“No, Billy,” she says real annoyed, but she sounds almost—fond? Or at least, like she’s making a joke at his expense. “Kali, my sister.” _Her sister_? Oh god, has her sister got powers too? That’s a frightening idea. 

“When did you talk to Kali, El? Remember, you gotta ask me before you run up the phone bill with long-distance calls. Plus, I don’t know if she’s the best influence, kiddo.” Hopper’s back, still clearly exhausted but looking a little bit less like he’s about to die. 

“Not on the phone.” El sounds exasperated. “In the blank space.” 

“The blank space?” Billy asks, still curious. Plus, now that Hopper’s here, he’s a lot less worried she’s gonna go postal. 

“Yeah, the blank space. It’s—I don’t know.” She looks frustrated, like she can’t find the words. She’s replaced all the lightbulbs she can reach, too. 

“Hey,” Billy interrupts before she can work herself up again, “it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me everything, we can talk about something else. What were the categories on _Jeopardy!_ earlier?” He swaps her the box of lightbulbs for the trashcan, uses his crab claw hand to get the lights in the ceiling fixture and the porch bulb replaced. 

Hopper goes to start dinner; looks like they’re having tuna mac from what he pulls out of the cabinet and the fridge. Gross, but apparently a staple around here. Max had asked Susan to make it for dinner, a few weeks ago, said she’d had it at the Wheelers and it was great. Neil’d taken one bite and thrown his plate against the wall, left the rest of them sitting in the kitchen, listening to noodles and chunks of tuna drip onto the ground. 

When they sit down for dinner—in front of the TV, not at the kitchen table, because, as Hopper put it, _sometimes you’ve gotta not look at each other for a minute_ —El puts in the _Jeopardy!_ tape. The tuna mac is, actually, not that bad. It’s better than Susan’s, that’s for sure; he thinks it’s probably the ranch dressing mix packet Hopper mixed into the mac that made it edible. Hop’s pretty good at _Jeopardy!_. He knows a lot of the answers, and he always remembers to phrase it as a question. Billy knows more answers, but he keeps fucking up his delivery, and El’s a real stickler for the rules. 

After the sixth time she gives Hopper a point for saying the same answer (“What is peacock?”) because Billy just yells the answer out like an idiot, Billy goes out for a cigarette. When Hopper joins him in the designated smoking clearing, Billy flicks his Zippo open to offer him a light. 

“Kid,” Hopper starts, cigarette dangling between his lips as he puts the pack away, “Thanks, for what you did for El. She’s having, uh, having a hard time adjusting to the real world. It’s hard enough being a teen, I get it, but she just gets so upset when I don’t understand something. What you did for her—it means a lot. To both of us. 

“And, just for the record, I’m not gonna kick you out of the house like that. If you hurt somebody else who doesn’t deserve it, or if you tell anybody about El, or if you don’t follow the rules we agreed on, you might have to leave, but I’m sure as hell not gonna throw you out on the street like that, with no warning or nothing. 

“Listen, kid,” he goes, and rubs the bridge of his nose, “My dad was shitty, like yours—like Neil, I mean. I can’t tell you how many nights I slept in my car, how many times I hid a black eye from him under bruises from a fistfight at school. I enlisted on my eighteenth birthday, stayed with a friend of mine until I graduated, shipped out as soon as they’d take me. 

“That friend of mine, though, he was a good dude. He got me a job, sent me care packages when I was in Vietnam, helped me figure out what the hell I was gonna do when I got discharged. And when my old man died, he was there, helping me lower that motherfucker into the ground. 

“I ain’t saying we’re exactly the same or anything; hell, you’re a good deal smarter than I was when I was your age. But I am saying that I’ve been near where you are. It’s not easy, learning to be a good man when all you’ve ever been taught is how to be a _real man_ , you know? I’m here, though, to help you out when you need me.” 

Billy’s cigarette has long since gone out, and El called outside to tell them double jeopardy was starting five minutes ago, but the weight Hopper gives his words makes Billy pause. How’s he supposed to fix all the shit he’s done to people? There’s just no way. 

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to disappoint you, sir, but until then I appreciate your help.” Billy pushes back through the brush to the house; El said earlier that one of the categories was the Civil War, and he’s real good at history questions. 

“Billy,” Hopper kind of shouts as he walks away, “You’re no John Lennon, but you could prob’ly get some girls interested with those pipes’a yours.” Hopper starts just about yodeling _Hey Jude_ in a poor imitation of Billy. Damn it, he really is going to get shit for that forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! 
> 
> First, thanks to all of y'all who've given me kudos and comments! I appreciate your support so much. (Especially since this is the first large-scale non-academic writing I've done in YEARS!) 
> 
> This chapter's a little shorter than the last one, but there's a natural break point in what I have written here, so I'll make sure the next one's a little longer.
> 
> Some less serious notes:
> 
>   * The chapter title is from _Shattered_ , by the Rolling Stones. (yes, _Some Girls_ is my favorite Stones album, how did you know?)
>   * Mark is sort-of based on my stepdad, who's not gay but is, truly, the world's chillest dude. Also, he apparently did a whole bunch of drugs with Cheap Trick when he worked with them on a regional tour. 
>   * The first Spotify playlist for this work can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/nikwarr/playlist/0lPB8Qy2HOQJSg6ziIxdjr?si=dyI90EaNQEWaEOtkQlmMrg). It's called "an embarrassment I: billy's car music," because my giant eighties playlist is called "an embarrassment," because my partner loves me but thinks my musical preferences are an embarrassment. (He's not wrong, tbh.) 
>   * Billy loves the Violent Femmes because I love the Violent Femmes. Their music is, like, the best kind of whiny. PLEASE listen to _Blister in the Sun_ and decide for yourself if it's gay or about masturbation. I'd love to know your thoughts. 
>   * Also, the concept of Billy slinking around punk venues and gay clubs and shit is truly life-giving, as someone who is very out of place in gay clubs and punk venues but for, like, the opposite reason.  
>  _Just imagine that boy! Learning how to dance! From some very kind drag queens!_
> 

> 
> **In the next installment: Max makes a mistake and Billy makes a piss-poor attempt at an apology. Also, maybe our first foray into Steve's point of view!**


	3. god knows (god knows i want to break free)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Max fucks up and feels bad, Billy's record for apologies becomes a .330, and El learns about rocks and hard places._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> So a few things before we get into the chapter: 
> 
> I want to thank y'all so much for all the love you've shown this story! I basically just sat down and started writing last week and, uh, here I am seventy pages later, only about a third through the story I have outlined, living my best life. Your support and comments and kudos mean the world to me, especially since it's been so, so long since I've shared any of my creative work with anyone. 
> 
> There are some additional warnings for this chapter that are SUPER IMPORTANT, but I haven't necessarily tagged for all of them since they either (a) aren't explicitly discussed or (b) are only going to be present in this chapter, and I don't want to over-tag and frighten any potential readers away. Here they are, bolded for y'all's convenience:
> 
>  **WARNING for non-specific description of a panic attack:** Further explained in the end notes.
> 
>  **WARNING for non-specific discussion of the AIDS crisis:** AIDS was such a horrible, important part of being LGBTQ+ in the eighties, so I've chosen to add in a few references, and they probably won't be the last references in this story. That being said, the AIDS crisis can be incredibly stressful for people to read about, so please _please_ take care of yourselves, dear readers!
> 
>  **WARNING for outing:** Further explained (and pretty spoiler-y for this chapter) in the endnotes, but I do want to make it clear that, while someone is outed, it isn't to a whole town or to people who might make any of the characters less safe. YMMV, though, so please read the spoilers in the endnotes if you're worried about any potentially triggering situations. 
> 
> **WARNING for alcoholism:** Neil comes home, very drunk; it's a short scene but this might be triggering for any of you who had/have an alcoholic parent. 
> 
> **WARNING for mention of a shitty hockey player in the endnotes:** I mention the player who wears #88 for the Chicago Bl*ckhawks, literally just in passing but I get really fucking pissy when I have to remember that he exists so for the probably one person who feels the same way and will ever read this fic, this warning's for you!
> 
> My more fun notes are at the end of the chapter; I'll see y'all there!

So, Max tells them about Billy by accident. 

Okay, it comes up in conversation and Max says something about Billy without thinking.

Okay, Max brings up the subject and then forgets that they don’t know about Billy. 

Okay, so Max does it kind of on purpose, but it’s for a good reason or something, she thinks at first. She’s just—so upset at him. Billy literally tried to kill her boyfriend, just because he’s a racist. He would’ve killed Steve, if she hadn’t stuck him with that syringe. He’s been a literal walking, talking, human asshole since they moved from Cali; no, actually, he’s been a walking, talking human asshole since he got out of the hospital in Cali. 

It was fair, then, she gets it, she messed up, but she hasn’t done anything bad to him since then. She’s kept her mouth shut about the weed he keeps wrapped in a holey old pair of socks at the back of his underwear drawer, about the time he got too drunk at Ingrid Johnson’s house party last month and she had to hold his nasty mullet back so he didn’t get vomit in his hair when he came home sick as a dog, even about the time he went into Chicago a few weeks ago and came back with a hickey the size of San Francisco on his neck that she _knows_ wasn’t from some girl. 

She’s said sorry to Billy for telling his secret; she basically hasn’t _stopped_ saying sorry since she opened her big mouth to talk about the boy she’d seen him kissing after school and Neil overheard her. He’s still been a huge dick to her ever since, and now he’s left her alone with Neil and Susan. 

So if she asks Lucas and Dustin if there’s any gay kids in town at the arcade after school, a week after everything happened, it’s just because she’s curious.

And if, when they look at her like, _is she gay?_ , she says “No! I’m straight. It’s Billy.” it’s only because she doesn’t think before she speaks any more than Billy does, half the time. 

She regrets it, immediately. She knows it was a stupid friggin’ thing to do, especially by the way they stare at her, Dustin’s mouth literally hanging open like he’s in a cartoon. They drag her away from Dig Dug, which pisses her off immensely because she was _just_ about to beat her own high score, to whisper-scream at her in the teeny open space between Galaga and the new Super Mario, and she feels like she’s gonna be sick. 

 

Neil had threatened her the other night, when he got home. He smelled sickly sweet, Crown Royal drifting off him like the smell of salt drifts off the sea, when he stumbled in the door, caught her in the kitchen heating up leftover spaghetti from the night before. Her mom was already home, resting her eyes back in the bedroom; the bleach she used to clean the Harrington’s house on Sundays always gave her a migraine, but they wouldn’t let her use vinegar and baking soda even though it worked just as well.

“Izzat cocksuckin’ bastard gone?” he’d slurred, struggling to get his jacket off. “That sum’bitch ain’t even mine, I’m glad I don’ haveta worry about his queer ass gettin’ arrested for pubic—public indecency.

“Didee call tha fuckin' cops?” Max had shaken her head no, too afraid to talk. Sometimes just the sound of her voice sets him off yelling, especially when he’s liquored up like he was then. “Well...good. You didn’ call no-one, either, didja? Cuz if I hear that you been spreadin’ our family bizness all over town,” he hiccups drunkenly, “it’ll be bad, for you an’ him. Jus’ ‘cause I ain’t never hit a girl don’t mean I can’t hurtcha. I know you got a soft spot for your pansy-ass big brother; I bet me finishin’ him off would just break your lil heart.”

“Yessir,” she’d said, real quiet. He’d only have gotten madder, if she didn’t respond. 

 

Even though she knows Billy was right, knows Neil would’ve killed him right then and there if Billy hadn’t left, she hates him, more than a little bit, for leaving her in that house. Neil’s been meaner, since Billy’s been gone. Neil hasn’t hit her, but all the meanness he used to save for Billy, all the snipes about the length of his hair and his candy-ass saint’s necklace and where he used to go, nights he was out past curfew, have to go somewhere. 

She’s taken to eating breakfast in her room and reading _To Kill A Mockingbird_ at the dinner table, claiming she hasn’t got time to do all her homework otherwise. She spends so much of her time now locked in her little shoebox of a room, whispering to Lucas and Will and Dustin and sometimes Mike about skateboarding tricks and the newest, nerdiest Dungeons & Dragons campaign they’re about to embark on. Even with the guys doing their best to be nice to her, though, the house still feels like a tomb. She still feels like she’s being buried alive. 

She’s still mad at Billy. No matter what she did, she can’t take it back now, and he hasn’t even _tried_ to forgive her, no matter how many times she’s said sorry. So when he apologizes, kind of, she doesn’t forgive him. So what if she knows where he’s coming from? So what if he was right? She’s alone, and he left her alone, and right before he left her alone he threatened her boyfriend and beat up one of the only safe people in this shitty town. 

So, _yeah_ , she’s mad, and she wants to make him hurt. All the things he said, the night he left, about how she’s stupid for caring about him, and how he doesn’t care—she just wants to make him feel half as bad as she had felt, carrying all his stuff, all the little things that make up a life, into his car. Helping another person leave her, just like she’d helped her dad pack all his sports memorabilia and dad clothes and family photos into his astrovan before he left her. 

And so, yeah, maybe she _does_ let it slip that Billy’s gay, or queer or whatever the hell he wants to call himself. She thinks, for half a second, it’ll make her feel better. But all she feels as Dustin and Lucas crowd her into the teeny space between arcade machines is numb and sick with panic. 

Maybe Billy’s right about her; she can’t keep her stupid mouth shut. She called Hopper’s house after Billy left, even though he told her not to, and she told El everything, which she knew better than to do, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do; now she’s fucking _outed_ Billy to Lucas, who can keep a secret, and Dustin, who has literally _never kept a secret in his life_. Billy’s gonna destroy her when he finds out. She deserves it. He was right, the other day, when he said he’d get killed if everyone knew. God, she’s so _dumb_. 

“Max, are you serious?” Lucas’ hand is on her shoulder, shaking a little, She thinks maybe he said that already, but she feels like she’s in slow motion, like Scarlet Witch has put a curse on her or something. Billy always jokes that if she were an X-Man, she’d be Banshee, _always yellin’ your head off and shit_. Shit, she feels horrible. 

“You can’t tell.” She feels like she’s going to faint or throw up or just, like, die. 

“I mean it. Dustin, I need you to look me in the eyes and swear to me on your mother or Mews or whatever. Swear you won’t tell. What kind of dumb nerdy blood oath or whatever do we need to do so you—both of you—won’t _ever tell_ anyone else, _so help you God_?” Distantly, Max recognizes that she’s getting a little screechy, but this is important. If they tell—if Billy finds out—she can’t breathe suddenly. She sits down, hard, accidentally making the boys lose their footing a little. There really isn’t room for three people back here, she thinks hysterically, as if that's the most important thing right now. 

“Okay, okay,” Dustin says, in a voice he probably thinks sounds soothing. She wants to punch the dumb smile off his face, even though she _knows_ he smiles when he’s nervous. Doesn’t he know this is serious? Doesn’t he _understand_?

“We’ll make a blood pact, Max,” Lucas says, crouching down a little. “Who’s got a pocket knife?” Thank God for Lucas, the only sane person in the whole world apparently.

Max pulls her little Swiss Army Knife out of her pocket. Billy’d given it to her for her last birthday, laughed about how she needed to have something sharp if she had a mouth on her like that. He was right, she thinks with a mirthless laugh, only not the way he thought he would be. 

She doesn’t know how their nerdy little blood ritual is supposed to go, though, so she passes the blade to Lucas. He pricks the fleshy part of his palm, then Dustin’s, then Max’s, then they all kinda smush their blood around. It’s pretty gross, but it doesn’t really hurt or anything. 

She feels like she can breathe again, now that they’ve made a blood oath. They take that kinda crap so seriously she knows they’re not gonna break it on purpose.

“Billy can’t know that I told you. Nobody else can know, either. If he gets killed by some stupid backwards hick in this stupid hick town, it’ll be all my fault.” To her horror (and, it looks like, Dustin and Lucas’ horror as well), she suddenly just—bursts into tears. Lucas gets himself together pretty quickly, though, shoves Dustin out of the teeny tiny space they’ve wedged themselves in and kneels next to her. He takes off his bandana, and even though it’s a little sweaty (God, boys are gross) she uses it to wipe her face off. 

“Hey, Max, does this mean Billy has AIDS or whatever?” Dustin whispers from where he’s crouching in front of Galaga. She comes out swinging, clocks him just hard enough in the nose that he starts bleeding. Keith comes over then, while Dustin’s complaining really loud about violent assault, and kicks them out.

 

“Dustin, I mean it,” she says seriously as they’re boarding toward Goose’s Diner, the only other place in town that doesn’t basically kick teenagers out on sight, “If anyone knows, Billy could get hurt _really bad_. Billy’s not sick, he doesn’t _do things like that_ , and even if he did he’s my brother and I’d take care of him. But he _doesn’t_ and if you don’t quit saying STUPID SHIT like that where ANYONE COULD HEAR YOU, I will literally end your life. I’m so serious. 

“Not even Mike or Will or El can know. ‘Cause if El knows and says something to Billy, he’ll know I told, and if she says something where Hopper can hear it, Billy might get kicked out and have nowhere to go, and if that happens I’ll KILL YOU and make your mom adopt me and Billy instead.”

Dustin looks really embarrassed, but she doesn’t know whether it’s because she’s just been yelling her head off at him in a parking lot or because he feels bad about what he said. He doesn’t look like he’s gonna tell, though, so she hops off her board, pats him on the shoulder. 

“Now to make it up to me, you’re gonna buy me cheese fries. Right?”

“Wha—NO! My mom only gave me three dollars and I spent, like one-twenty-five at the arcade, if I get you cheese fries I won’t have the money for a burger. Besides, why don’t you get LUCAS to buy your cheese fries, you know he has way more money than either of us!” Dustin yelps. God, sometimes she doesn’t know why she’s friends with him. 

Lucas does buy her cheese fries, and they start talking (in code, of course) about how excited Mike’s been to be able to talk to El again, now that Hopper’s secret is out. Max even met her the other day; El hid in the back of Billy’s car under a blanket when he came to pick Max up from the arcade, and even though Billy made her stay hidden in the backseat, she and Max had a very nice conversation. Well, Max did make a joke about how Mike looks like a frog, which El kind of seemed mad about for a second. She seemed less pissy when Max talked about how bad Billy’s music is, though, and by the time they got to Max’s house, she and El were complaining about Whitesnake. 

That was probably the hardest it’s been yet, not talking directly to Billy. When she thinks about it for too long, she kind of starts to breathe really fast again, like she did before she had to sit down at the arcade, and Lucas offers her some of his cherry Coke to help her calm down. It kind of works, even. Maybe she will let Lucas kiss her on the mouth, eventually, she thinks, even if he is a little bit sweaty. 

Dustin’s saying something about how now that Billy’s living with El and Hop, Mike is all worried that Billy’s gonna try something, which, _ew_. Even if El weren’t way younger than Billy, he’s not interested. Just as Dustin’s trying to muddle his way through some complicated metaphor about how _since the wildcat isn’t even_ into _waffles, the frog can just, like,_ chill _for a second and quit bothering all the other animals_ , Steve plops down next to him. He tries to ruffle Dustin’s hair, but since he’s wearing a baseball hat, it just kind of twists around lamely. 

“What’s up, nerds?” Steve asks fondly, snatching the last cheese fry on Max’s plate. “What the hell is Dustin trying to say? It sounds like he’s pitching some dumb animated movie or something.”

Dustin is, for once, lost for words. Max could _kill him_ , she thinks. It would take a while, since she’s only got the Swiss Army Knife and all, but she could do it. 

“He’s, uh, he’s having a nervous breakdown. Jeannie Carmichael asked if she could borrow his biology notes yesterday and the stress of talking to a pretty girl is literally driving him insane,” Lucas tries to cover, a beat too late. Steve doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets the subject drop. 

“Okay, well, you’re late, guys. I had to go inside the damn arcade trying to find you, and you guys know those lights give me a fuckin’ migraine, and then that creepy dude Keith said he kicked you guys out for fighting. Dustin, I already told your mom I’d bring you home, she’s making that really good baked ziti for dinner again. Lucas, I think we can get your bike in the back too if you want me to run you home on the way.

“And, Max? Billy’s waiting for you at the arcade, or at least his car’s there. Might wanna run along before he gets pissy again, comes looking for another fight.” Steve smiles, a little pained, and touches the line of stitches on his forehead. She shoves Lucas out of the booth and almost on the floor in her hurry to get going, grabs her board and barely has time to yell “BYE” over her shoulder before the front door of Goose’s closes behind her. 

______________

Billy looks a little pissed, when she gets to the car. He’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, and from the ash on the ground next to the car he’s probably smoked half a pack since he got here. She pulls on the door handle a few times while he goes to unlock it, even though she knows it pisses him off. It’s just habit, at this point. He looks at her, real pointedly, until she buckles up, then drives away, cigarette still caught between his lips. He takes a drag, and the dumb face he has to make to get a good pull off it almost makes her laugh. She remembers he’s pissed, though, and stops herself. 

“Where the hell were ya?” he drawls, but he doesn’t sound, like, really mad. If he were really mad, he’d be all tight-voiced and white knuckled, speeding a little faster and taking the curves a little sharper than he usually does. He just sounds annoyed, like he usually does when she’s late or he’s otherwise inconvenienced. 

“Dustin said somethin’ shitty, so I punched him a little. We got kicked out of the arcade for the night, had to go hang out at Goose’s.” She doesn’t say more than she has to, doesn’t look at him directly. If she does, she’s afraid she’ll cry. The cheese fries feel like they’re all stuck together in a big ball in her stomach, like she’s full of rocks instead of delicious, cheesy carbs.

“Alright, kid, you gotta tell me these things, or at least be back where you’re s’posed to be. Neil ain’t happy I’m takin’ you anywhere after school, if we’re late too often he might not let me anymore and then you’ll be stuck at home while your little nerd friends are out wasting quarters, trying to beat your high score.”

She forgets, sometimes, how observant Billy is. It’s probably because of Neil, probably from trying to avoid—or at least predict—hits, but he uses it for other stuff, too.

 

He’s the one who bought her the skateboard she uses now, and she hadn’t even told anyone she wanted to try boarding. He’d seen her watching the punks board around downtown, noticed her drifting towards the jumps and half pipes when they were out near the boardwalks to try to learn technique. Neil’d been mad, when she had opened Billy’s present last Christmas, thought it was too butch for her. He hadn’t taken it away, though, and Billy started taking her out to Santa Monica on Saturday afternoons so she could learn from the skate rats out there. 

A lot of the famous guys down there had been shitty, but once Natas Kaupas had helped her figure out why the hell she couldn’t do an ollie without losing her board, and the girls in the Hags were always nice to her, giving her tips and stuff. They’d liked Billy, too, but so did all the girls in LA, really. One of the Hags had given her a real Hags patch, even though she was definitely too young to join, and she kept it safely at the bottom of the baby-pink jewelry box her mom had given her for her 12th birthday, right next to the bright red lipstick Billy’d bought for her after one of the Hags suggested it. He’d laughed himself silly, said it made her hair look even worse, but paid the lady in the makeup store anyways. 

Sometimes Max puts it on in the mirror, listening to the Queen eight track Billy’d made her. _She’s a killer queen, gunpowder and gelatine_ , she mouths along with Freddie Mercury. She likes the way her mouth looks, outlined in red; she feels powerful. She always wipes it off, though, before she leaves her room. Neil's always complaining about _sluts wearing red lipstick, no shame at all_. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies, eyes out the window, trying to sound appropriately annoyed but apologetic. “I’ll be on time next time.”

“I’m gonna start working, in another two weeks or somethin’,” Billy says, sounding a little distracted, like he's thinking about something else. “When I do, you can just come to the shop after school if you want, hand out until dinnertime, so you don’t hafta go home so much.” 

He knows what it's like, to live in that house with Neil. She’d been watching him flip between being out until curfew every night to hiding in his room as soon as school got out since their parents had gotten married a year and a half ago, and now he was helping her get out of the house.

She hadn’t realized the bruises on his face and chest weren’t from the fights she figured he got into when he was out at concerts and bars and stuff until he’d gone into the hospital, after the last time Neil got really mad. That had been her fault, too, same as this time. Hell, no wonder he doesn’t like her, corrects anyone who calls her _his sister_. 

Now she feels even worse for what she did at the arcade. God, she's a _worm_. She wants to tell him, get it over with, but the words are stuck in her throat. 

“Thanks, that sounds good,” she croaks instead, and leans over to turn up the radio. 

_________________________________

Billy barely notices Max being all weird and quiet on the way home, his mind preoccupied with Steve. When Billy’d pulled into the arcade parking lot, Steve’s Beemer was already there. He figures Steve will wait in his car, like Billy does, but when none of the kids come spilling out of the arcade at 5:30 like they normally do, yelling and elbowing each other and doing some other dumb kid shit, Steve gets out of the car, pushing his bangs out of his face, and lopes inside to check on them. 

Jesus, Steve’s legs are _long_. His face is looking better, too, from what Billy can see in the mirrored windows of the arcade; his bruises are fading a lot faster than Billy’s, and somebody’s stitched up his forehead. Billy kinda hopes the big cut is gonna scar, just a little. He likes the idea of his mark being on Steve, even if it was a mark he’d made in anger. 

He gets a flash, suddenly, of how good Steve’d look with a little hickey, right at the base of his throat, and has to shove that thought away _hard_. He _just_ beat the hell out of Steve, and even if Steve weren’t straight as an arrow, he doesn’t think Steve’s into being treated like shit. Well, probably not; Billy has his doubts about just how nice the little Wheeler chick is. Billy’s feelings for Steve are irrelevant right now, anyways; having to look his bad deeds in the eye is uncomfortable. He’s too sad and stressed and _sore_ to get it up right now anyways. Probably. 

Steve comes back out the front door, waving goodbye to someone inside. He glances over at the Camaro, makes eye contact with Billy for a half-second, then keeps walking. There’s this look in his eyes, Billy notices, like _you don’t scare me_ , like he’s not willing to let himself be afraid of Billy.

It’s just another way Steve’s better’n he is. He’s nicer to the loudmouth kids; all the adults in town love him. Even though Billy’d pounded him good, Steve isn’t going to engage, won’t pick a fight just to feel in control of _something_. 

Maybe that’s why all those kids followed him around like ducklings after their mama. Suddenly, he imagines Steve dressed in a toga, hair flowing longer, teaching his herd of virgins how to hunt with bow and arrow like Artemis. He laughs a little to himself at the idea of it.

He realizes Steve’s not heading toward his Beemer; he’s walking across the parking lot, toward the greasy spoon a few storefronts away. For a few seconds, all Billy can do is watch Steve move, his back flexing through the thin fabric of his sweater as he scratches his neck, his tight ass wiggle in his horrible pegged jeans. 

Steve’s always wearing these horrible ivy-league clothes that make him look kinda like a dad. Billy’s never even really seen him wear a band t-shirt or anything, just ugly sweaters and plain, neutral t-shirts, some truly embarrassing pastel polos. Maybe that’s the rich kid rules, that everything you wear has to look fancy. The sweaters he wears do look cozy, though, and he’s grabbed Steve enough times to know that they’re all soft. He wonders idly what Steve’d look like, wearing his beat-up old Violent Femmes shirt; it’s been washed so many times it’s probably just as soft as one of Steve’s fancy sweaters. 

As he imagines Steve, all long limbs and mole-studded skin smiling up at him, wearing Billy’s t-shirt and nothing else, Max starts yanking on the door handle. He wants to throttle her, suddenly. He unlocks the door, breathes deeply like El was talking about last night so he doesn’t lose his temper. 

 

As he sat with her last night, using the box of mugs Hopper’d brought home from Fort Wayne the day before to illustrate word problems ( _if Chief Hopper has 4 mugs when he moves in, and he buys eight mugs a week, how many mugs will he have after four weeks?_ ), she’d started talking about being angry. 

“I get angry, all the time. But when I get mad—I lose control. I hurt people. So I had to learn how to calm down. When I get mad,” El had said, all serious, looking over at him like _this is important information, mister_ , “I have to take deep breaths. I count to eleven. Sometimes I count to a hundred, before I get calm enough to stop. But when I do it, I don’t lose control.” 

She’s a smart kid. She’s picking up math and science real quick, gets big concepts like _that_. She's having a much harder time with English, though. Hopper’s not real excited that she’s been spending all her spare time on the radio with the Wheeler idiot, but Billy thinks it’s probably good for her language acquisition or whatever. If she’s gonna start real school next fall, she needs to be able to talk like a real kid. 

It sucks though, sometimes, hearing Max’s voice crackle down the line, laughing and having fun with no care about him at all. There’d been a long while where the two of them had gotten along, where he’d let him drag her to the beach and Dogtown and she’d cover for him when he went out with Mark. 

When he had found out that she’s the one who told Neil, he had been heartbroken, felt like an idiot for trusting her. Of course she’d tell him, he’d thought, sitting in the hospital, what he was doing—what he was feeling—was wrong, was sinful. She hadn’t done anything wrong, he’d tried to rationalize, even as he’d felt betrayal spread through him. 

He hadn’t been able to trust her, really, since then, and not having anyone to trust was shitty. Mark’d moved up to San Francisco, to help the sick people there, and when Billy called him, Mark sounded busy, overwhelmed by how much people needed him. Billy hadn’t told him, especially after Mark had sighed across the line, _I’m so glad I know you’re safe, that you’re not gonna die on me anytime soon_. 

 

So, anyway, he’s trying to toe the line between letting her know he’s frustrated and losing control. He’s got on AC/DC, and that helps a lot, lets him tap his left foot a little harder against the floorboard than he really needs to. 

She gives him some excuse for being late, but in the rear-view mirror he sees Dustin and Lucas grabbing their bikes, following Steve to the Beemer. After he takes the shitheads home, Steve’s probably gonna go home to his parents who give a shit about him and eat some healthy bullshit for dinner and sit around the TV together watching _Knight Rider_ or some other normal healthy family bullshit. 

Steve’ll probably go get some later, too, unless he’s too fucked up about Wheeler. There's girls all over school who think Steve's so dreamy, especially now that it looks like he and Billy got into a fight and Steve won. Billy doesn’t know why he would be, broken up about Wheeler that is; she seems like the kind of girl who wouldn’t let him touch her without some signed contract saying he’s never gonna talk about it again. She’s probably one of those girls who just lays there, doesn’t act like they like it at all. All this week, Billy’s seen her take Jonathan’s hands off her whenever he comes up and hugs her or puts his arm around her in the hallways at school. 

Steve’s looked a little worse for the wear, since he and Wheeler officially broke it off or whatever. Billy hasn’t really talked to Tommy or Carol since before everything happened, but when he heard Tommy talking shit about how _Steve can’t keep a girl because he’s too much of a limp wrist_ the other day between classes, Billy’d accidentally pinned Tommy to the bank of lockers behind him, warned him to keep his big stupid mouth shut. It hurt his hand pretty bad, where the fingers were broken, but—Steve didn’t deserve to be talked about that, not when he can't hear it and fight back himself. 

Max has this weird fuckin’ look on her face, like she feels bad or something. Maybe it’s cause she’s gotta go back home, sit and eat dinner with Neil and Susan and pretend like everything’s normal. 

He offers to let her come hang out with him once he starts working; that way she doesn’t have to spend all her time shut up in her room. He remembers what that’s like, the anxiety and boredom crackling under his skin, building until he felt like he was gonna die if he didn’t go do—something. She says yeah, sounds almost like she’s gonna cry or something horrible like that. Thankfully, she doesn’t, just turns up _It’s A Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock & Roll)_ and lets Angus Young sing them back to Neil’s house. 

“Bye, twerp, don’t forget you’ve gotta finish that book report for tomorrow, you can’t just write that in the car on the way to school,” he calls out the window as she goes into the house. She gives him the hairy eyeball, and for a minute it almost feels normal again. 

“Don’t forget you’ve gotta apologize to everyone you’ve ever met in Hawkins,” she shouts back, a huge fake smile on her face. She’s not wrong, he thinks, as he pulls out and heads towards the fucking forest. Fuck, he hates small towns. 

 

When he gets back to the cabin, El and Hopper are eating dinner and listening to public radio. It’s not even, like, fun college radio, it’s _NPR_ , and the boring voices of the radio people are almost worse than El’s monotone. Lynn Neary is droning on about oil prices or something, and Hopper’s nodding along like he cares at all. El looks hideously bored. 

“El,” Billy asks as he serves himself a plate of whatever delicious, vaguely tan casserole Hopper’s made (or, probably, heated up in the oven; apparently the nice receptionist at the police station bring Hopper a few casseroles a week and he brings her back the dishes on Tuesdays.) “How far did you get into _The Diary of Anne Frank_?”

He was kinda worried about her reading that one, honestly. He knew better than to have her read _Ol’ Yeller_ yet—hell, he'd punched a brick wall so hard he'd broken a few knuckles when he'd finished that book, and he doesn't even have psychic powers—but Anne Frank had seemed relatively tame yesterday when she’d asked him what to read next for “school.” This morning, on the way to school, he’d realized that probably wasn’t, like, the best decision he’s ever made. A smart girl, locked away because she’s different, hiding from the monsters hunting her? It feels a little too on the nose. Yikes. 

“Twenty pages.” she says crisply. “Mike told me she was really smart.” 

“Yeah, uh-huh,” he says around a mouthful of hashbrown casserole, “she was.”

“It’s not fair, that they just decided she was not allowed to do things,” El says, real pointed, looking at Hopper with these big pleading eyes. 

“Listen, El, it’s not safe for you to be out in Hawkins right now. The lab _just_ closed, like, a week ago. What if somebody recognizes you?” Hopper says, in a tone that sounds like _we’ve had this discussion too many times today_. 

“They won’t! My hair is long now. I will wear a very pretty dress. I will be like the little princess, but backward.” Weird, that she’s read _The Little Princess_ of all fuckin' books, but Billy won’t argue.

“And,” she says, looking like she’s got the ace up her sleeve, “it will be almost Christmas then. Christmas is for miracles, right Hopper?”

Hopper gets this look on his face that Billy’s felt all too many times lately, all _well, shit, I did say that, now, didn’t I?_

“ _Maybe_ you can go to that winter dance at the high school,” Hopper says. “ _If_ you can keep it together between now and then, no meltdowns or anything. And only if Billy agrees to take you and bring you home. _And_ take you dress shopping, god knows I don’t have time to sit around the mall for six hours while you find something you like.”

El looks at him, big puppy eyes and a face like _I’ve been locked up by a bunch of asshole scientists my whole life and I wanna go hold a shithead boy’s sweaty hand before I die of sadness_. He’s thought too much about Anne Frank today, that’s what he’s gonna say if anyone asks him why he nods yes without too much thought. Plus, he would have to take Max anyways, probably. _Neil’s_ certainly not gonna take her, or pay for her dress. 

“Sure, Hop,” he says, “but only if Max can come spend the night after.” He’s angling for a few things: he doesn’t wanna have to drive all over town back and forth all night, he ain’t a chauffeur or something; El needs to make a real human friend who’s a girl, and so does Max, and they still haven’t actually gotten to just, like, hang out and be girls together; and Billy’s heard about a party some girl’s throwing at her house the night of the dance. If he doesn’t get a chance to blow off some steam eventually he’s probably gonna explode or wither and die or get a sticky crust (haha) like a dream in a Langston Hughes poem. 

He can almost see the visions of shrieking girls and popcorn fights and blanket forts dancing in Hopper’s eyes, but he finally sighs, puts his head in his hands like he always does when he’s giving in to El, and goes “Yeah, okay. You’re paying for any property damages, though, Hargrove.”

 

After El goes to bed, Hopper puts on the Penguins-Blues game, cracks open a beer for himself. 

“You want one too, son?” he asks Billy, and Billy’s not sure how to answer. He’d love a beer right now, honestly; it’s been a long week, and his fucking fingers hurt, and he can’t stop thinking about the tiny brown mole at the base of Steve’s neck on the left side. It’s the one he wants to kiss the most, probably, if he had to pick one—it doesn’t show very often, and every time Billy gets a glimpse of it it’s like a present from the universe, and—Hopper’s still waiting for an answer, shit.

“Ya gonna arrest me for underage drinking?” he drawls, letting his Cali accent stretch his vowels a little. Hopper huffs a laugh, pops the tap on a second can and brings the beers over. 

They watch the Pens get absolutely massacred by the Blues in near-silence for a while. Hopper curses a little at the TV every time the Blues score. Even though the Penguins have been garbage for years, Hopper’s still a loyal fan. 

It’s funny, ‘cause Hopper said he likes the White Sox for baseball, but he can’t stand the Blackhawks, says they’re shit and Orval Tessier’s the worst coach in the league. That new kid playing for the Pens, Lemieux or whatever, isn’t bad, but Hopper complains a little about how he was uppity about some contract shit when he got drafted anyways. Billy wasn’t a big hockey guy back in LA; sure, he’d watched a couple Kings games, but they always choked in the playoffs. Plus, the Lakers were way more fun to watch, especially when they’d won the championship in ‘80.

He couldn’t’ve played hockey in LA either, even if he’d wanted to; it was way too expensive, especially when he could play basketball at the park and on the high school team for free. One time some guy had asked if he’d ever played, said something about him being a good instigator, probably, but Billy hadn’t had the money for skates, let alone pads or a helmet or pucks. 

So they’re watching hockey, drinking beers. All of a sudden, Hopper looks over at him, like he’s trying to see what kind of mood Billy’s in.  
“Have you started making amends yet?” Hopper asks, and Billy chokes a little, gets beer up in his sinuses, which, _fucking gross_ , for the record. God, every time Hopper opens his mouth, Billy’s surprised by what comes out. Hell, the other night, Hop sang El a line from an ABBA song. 

“None of the kids will talk to me, other than Max. She already told me she wasn’t gonna forgive me until Sinclair does, so I ain’t apologizing yet. And I can’t even get Steve in the same room as me, half the time.” He knows he’s making excuses. He could probably steal El’s radio, apologize to Mike over the walkie talkie or somethin’; he could probably offer Sinclair a ride home, though Lucas probably isn’t stupid enough to get in a car with an asshole who shoved him into a shelf and threatened him with bodily harm. 

“Bud, listen, it ain’t gonna get easier the longer you wait,” says Hopper. He sounds all wise and shit, like he’s been there and done that and if Billy’d just listen to him everything would be all hunky-dory. 

“It’s never gonna be easy, Chief, I was an asshole. But if they’re all too afraid to be within five feet of me, how’m I supposed to apologize? Hire a skywriter? Slip notes in their locker vents?” Billy’s a little mad, not at Hopper really. He’s willing to take it out on Hop, though, if he’s gotta. He doesn’t like the sick feeling he gets whenever he thinks about the brat pack and Steve and Joyce; the idea of talking to them about why he’d been like that is terrifying. 

“Steve’s gonna be over here tomorrow night. He’s been helping me with some—stuff, and he’s got some things to talk to me about. He’s coming over after his basketball game.” Hopper’s got this real light tone to his voice, like he’s talking to Billy about the weather or what they’re gonna have for breakfast.  
“I’ll be out of the house tomorrow night, then, keep outta you guys’ way.”

“Billy, that’s not why I’m telling you, son. I want you to start thinkin’ about what you’re gonna say to him. You’ve gotta start somewhere, and he’ll be a captive audience then.” The third period’s just about over, and unless this Lemieux kid scores four more goals in the next minute and a half, there’s no way the Pens are gonna come out of this with a point. Hopper chugs the rest of his beer, burps real loud and impressive, then clicks the tv off. 

“Think about it, kid,” he says, then goes into his room and shuts the door. Billy drinks the rest of his beer in silence before he goes to brush his teeth in the kitchen sink, piss off the porch railing, and set up his nest of blankets on the sofa. He and Hopper are gonna get the loft dealt with next week, once he’s out of the sling Joyce is making him wear and can move around a little better, but for now he’s still stuck on the couch. It’s not all that uncomfortable, except his legs hang over the edge from the ankles down; he’s getting kinda tired of waking up with frozen toes. 

As Billy’s wiggling around, trying to get comfortable, he starts thinking about what the _fuck_ he’s gonna say to Harrington tomorrow. Like, he really _is_ sorry that he beat Steve up, but Steve knows just how to push his buttons to piss him off. If he starts blabbing on like a girl about how much of a dick he was and Steve starts jawing, talking shit on him, Billy really doesn’t know what he’s gonna do. He promised Hopper he wouldn’t fight, but if Steve starts it, Billy can’t promise he won’t finish it. 

He thinks about the look in Steve’s eyes earlier, thinks about the look in Steve’s eyes when he was beating the shit out of him. He doesn’t want to make Steve feel bad any more. In fact, some traitor part of his brain pops off, he wants to make Steve feel _really good_. He ignores that part for now, tries to figure out how he’s gonna say “sorry I literally hit you until I passed out” in other, nicer words. 

After ten minutes of thinking about apologies that go nowhere, he lets the traitor part of his brain take over, lets himself think about Steve wearing Billy’s leather jacket and Steve’s full mouth swollen with kisses and whether Steve’d let him leave marks where the guys in the locker room would be able to see. He remembers the soft smile on Steve’s face as he corralled Henderson and Sinclair toward the Beemer earlier, the fire in Steve’s eyes when he’d turned Billy around and punched him breathless that horrible night. 

He falls asleep fast, thinking about Steve. He wakes up about every hour and a half, though, from this _shitty_ nightmare he’s started having, where he doesn’t stop punching Steve, where Max doesn’t stop him the only way she knows how, and once Steve’s face is a bloody pulp Neil comes in and starts beating on Billy, but he can feel it all this time.

At five thirty, when he wakes up wet to the neck with tears he’s apparently cried in his sleep, he gets up for good, cursing his stupid girly emotions. He puts on shorts and a giant sweatshirt, gets his Walkman playing Quiet Riot and takes off into the forest at a jog. He comes back an hour and a half later, and even though Hop’s up, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette in the designated smoking clearing, he doesn’t say anything to Billy. The look on Billy’s face must say something, though, because Hopper doesn’t even start bitching about how Billy’s used all the hot water when he goes in to take a shower after Billy’s done. 

Billy wears his Violent Femmes t-shirt under his leather jacket, and when Max gets in his car and sees what he’s wearing, she has this look on her face like _who hurt you?_ She knows he doesn’t wear this shirt often, afraid it’s gonna wear through eventually. Nobody else has figured out he only wears it when he needs a little comfort, though, so he figures she can keep another of his secrets.

“Your hair looks different,” she says as they’re turning onto the main drag. “Less greasy.” He wrinkles his nose; he knows his hair ain’t exactly up to par right now, but there’s just the one bedroom in the house, and he feels bad keeping everyone else out for the half-hour it takes to make his hair look good. He’s been doing as good as he can with the living room mirror, but it’s hard when there’s nowhere to plug in his hair dryer near it.

(Plus, the one time he did blowdry it, Hopper had laughed himself sick. He hadn’t said it was a gay thing to do or anything, just that he’d never seen any human being spend so much time and effort on his hair.)

“Thanks, shithead,” he grumbles, “it’s been hard keeping up with the routine.” 

“Oh, are you not hogging Hopper’s bathroom like you used to hog ours? I get to sleep in an extra fifteen minutes, now that I don’t have to fight you for the sink.” She smiles at him, and for a second it’s like it used to be. She must feel it too, because she gets this look on her face like _I’m still mad at you because I remembered that’s what I said I was going to be_ and flings the door open before he’s even got the car stopped all the way. 

“Bye, asshole, don’t be late after school!” he yells after her, waving like an idiot. She blushes all the way to her hairline, and Henderson laughs out loud. She punches him in the arm as she reaches their little nerd group, says something that must embarrass him, if his blush is anything to go by. 

Shit, he needs to remember to tell her about the Snowball or whatever that dumb fuckin’ dance is called. Either she’s gonna be thrilled that she gets to get out of the house for a whole night or she’s gonna disembowel him for volunteering her for a sleepover. That’s a later him problem, he thinks, and goes in to start another day of bullshit. 

 

It’s all of a sudden like Steve’s never more than ten feet from him today. He hasn’t seen Steve for more than about ten seconds since before their big fight, but today Steve’s everywhere he turns. He’s wearing that dumb (nice-looking) bomber jacket and another godawful polo, this one red-and-white striped, some boring chinos that do nothing to make his ass look good. He still looks good, the traitor part of Billy’s brain thinks. 

Billy sees him sitting with Wheeler and Byers at lunch, making conversation like he’s not the world’s most uncomfortable third wheel; sees him flirting clumsily with Marissa Jackson about who’s gonna be providing hard liquor for that post-Snowball party; sees him, sweat sticking his gym shirt to the back of his neck, getting a drink at the water fountain when Billy’s going to the library for a book for his U.S. history reference paper. 

Billy might actually go insane, if he has to see Steve any more before he comes over tonight. He still hasn’t figured out what exactly he’s gonna say. God, Hopper’s rules are gonna kill him. 

 

When he bumps into Henderson in the hallway after the final bell, he’s so disoriented by the thought of Steve’s hands and his cologne that he doesn’t even say anything mean. In fact, he opens his big, stupid mouth and makes his whole day even more of an embarrassment. 

“Henderson, come here. I gotta talk to you.” Henderson looks, frankly, fucking terrified. 

“Billy, PLEASE don’t beat me up today, I’m gonna talk to Stacey at the basketball game later and I’m not cool enough to do it with a black eye or somethin’.” Billy has to count backwards from ten twice before he can think of something to say that won’t scare the loudmouth kid off. 

“Listen, kid, I just wanna talk.” He steers Dustin into an empty classroom, ignoring the weird little _eep_ of terror that comes out of the kid. 

“Alright, I told Max I’d apologize to all her dipshit friends, so here it is. I’m sorry or whatever.”

“What are you apologizing for, exactly?” asks Henderson, this dopey smile on his face like he’s catching Billy in a lie or some shit.

“Henderson, if you really are gonna talk to some dweeby girl later, don’t fuckin’ start with me, I’m not liable for what I do if you keep fuckin’ talking shit like that,” he starts. Henderson looks terrified, though, and Billy knows that the people you apologize shouldn’t exactly be scared of you while you’re doing it. He takes a breath, recenters like he’s supposed to, tries again.

“What I mean to say is, I’m sorry I was an asshole to you. I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry I roughed Steve up and shit. So long as you and your nerdy group of friends stops lyin’ to me about where my sister is and what she’s doin’, I won’t be an asshole.”

“Do you mean you won’t be an asshole by normal standards, or by your standards?” Henderson blurts out, and then literally, actually puts his hand over his own mouth. Jesus, Billy thinks, this kid’s never gonna be smooth, is he?

“Probably by my standards,” he says back, finally. It’s not an unfair question, he guesses, and Henderson clearly didn’t mean anything mean by it. 

He leans back against the table, lets the little shithead pass. 

Right before Henderson gets out the door, Billy stops him with a purposefully cleared throat. 

“Hey, kid, if you could tell your little nerd friends that if I come lookin’ for ‘em, it’s so I can apologize, that’d be pretty cool of you.” Dustin nods, turns back to the door. “And Henderson? When you talk to this girl, ask her some shit about herself. Girls love to talk about themselves.”

Consider that his public service for the year, he thinks as he walks out toward his car. Max is already there, sitting on the hood of the Cammy like she’s not heavy enough to dent the damn thing if she moves wrong. 

“Get off the car, Max,” he sighs as he unlocks it and throws his homework and shit in the backseat. 

“What were you doing? Why were you late? Were you picking a fight?” She’s on him like a tick on a dog, as his mother used to say. It’s like she has some kinda drama radar. 

“No, idiot,” he says roughly, “I was apologizing to one of your mouthbreather friends. Did you know Henderson’s gonna actually talk to some girl tonight?”

“No way.” She starts giggling, the look on her face a little unnerving. “I’m gonna have to get Lucas to call me later, tell me everything over a secure line.” 

“Do ya wanna go to the game or somethin’?” he asks. He would rather be, oh, anywhere else in the world that watching Steve sweat and ignore him, but he could just come drop her off, have one of the other kids’ parents drop her off later. He and El are supposed to do some earth science later, learn about the different kinds of rocks, but probably he could just tell her they can do it tomorrow. 

“ _God_ , no!” she goes, real shocked, “Why would I voluntarily watch a basketball game?”

“Wait, you don’t like basketball?” This is news to him. She’s always been around for his basketball games. She even used to skate down to the neighborhood court in Cali to watch him play pickup and shit. 

“No, it’s boring and all basketball players do is flop around all dramatic whenever anyone touches ‘em like titty babies. Look at hockey players, they get clobbered and they’re right back out on the ice as soon as the coach puts ‘em in.” She’s got bloodlust in her eyes, and honestly he’s not even that surprised. 

“Do you wanna play, hockey I mean? There’s probably a girls’ team around here somewhere, I bet once I get started working I can help you pay for gear and stuff if you want.” He’s entirely aware he sounds like he’s bribing her, but if she wants to play he’s more than happy to help her out. 

She gets a little aggressive when she doesn’t have some kind of physical outlet; half the reason he bought her the skateboard in the first place was for pre-emptive self-defense. Once she’d started boarding all over the place, he’d gotten tackled to the ground by a rabid twelve year old _in his own home_ about fifty percent less. Plus, they stopped getting in trouble for breaking Susan’s fancy collectible plates every week. 

“Nah, not this season,” she says glibly. “Steve promised to teach me ball hockey this summer, though, so maybe after that?” He’s briefly struck blind, deaf and dumb by the idea of Steve smearing him into the boards of a hockey rink. It shouldn’t be hot, probably, he thinks with the rational part of his brain, but God, he’s gonna be thinking about that for the rest of his life probably. Maybe he’s gonna have to learn to play, too. Max’ll need a scrimmage partner, right? 

“Alright. Hey, Max, you’re going to that snowball or whatever, right?” 

She looks at him like he’s got a second head. To her knowledge, Billy’s never given a single flying fuck about school dances, and, to be fair, he really doesn’t care too much about this one either, other than the fact that she’s gotta go to it so he can have a night to himself. 

“Uh, maybe, if Lucas asks me, I guess,” she says after a minute of silence. “Why do you care?”

“I told Hopper I’d take you and El to the dance, take you shopping for dresses and shit out in Fort Wayne too if you wanna. You can sleep over at Hopper’s that night too, get in a little girl time or whatever.” She’s gaping at him, mouth opening and closing like one of those dumb goldfish in the fountain outside the Chinese restaurant one town over in Sudbury. 

“Why?” she asks suspiciously after a minute, as if he couldn’t just do something nice for her or something. 

“Well, I thought it’d be nice for you to get out of the house,” he says, picking his words carefully, “and also El needs at least one friend who isn’t in the running for the World’s Biggest Nerd title. Also there’s a party that night and if Hopper’s busy with the two of you Harpies he won’t be wondering where I am.” She nods at him, eyes still narrowed, like, _I knew there was something in it for you_. 

“Alright,” Max says after she’s decided she’s built enough dramatic tension or whatever, “That’s fine. How are you gonna get Neil to let me out of the house for the night, though?”

“That’s Hopper’s problem,” he laughs. 

“Hey,” he says real serious before she gets out of the car, and she freezes, halfway out the door. “Do I haveta apologize to baby Byers, too? He wasn’t even there. I’ll talk to Sinclair and little Wheeler, alright, but I just don’t see why I should—”

“YES.” she yells, all dramatic, and slams his door, just to piss him off. “You have to apologize to ALL OF THEM, Will was VERY TRAUMATIZED by the BLOOD on the FLOOR of his HOUSE.”

He flips her off as he drives away. Maybe things are getting better with her, finally.

 

He and El are talking about the different kinds of rocks, sitting at the kitchen table with peanut-butter-and-banana waffle sandwiches. It’s a little past their normal dinnertime, but El’d said Hopper radioed and said he’d be running a little late earlier this afternoon. Something about a blood feud between farmers, El said, gesturing vaguely as if she’s not interested in the closest thing Hawkins has got to a turf war. Billy's gonna get all the details from Hopper, as soon as he's done helping El.

Billy figures it’s Hopper coming in, finally home from the station, when the door opens, so he pokes at the little chunk of granite he borrowed from Mr. Clarke, the nerdy science teacher, and asks her what kind it is. 

“Granite!” she chirps back, and when he gives her a look like _you know that’s not what I meant_ , she rolls her eyes, goes “metamorphic!”

“Nah, Susie Q, it’s an igneous. Remember, the igneous ones are made of magma, and they cooled off slower, so they’ve got big crystals in ‘em, see?” He points to a big spot of what’s probably quartz at the edge of the rock. “See that big crystal part?”

She nods, then glances over her shoulder and goes “Hi, Steve!” in that same chirpy, happy voice. 

Billy spins around to see Steve, taking off his bomber jacket. Billy’s stomach drops into his _ass_. Steve’s hair’s still a little wet, dripping down onto the popped collar of his horrifying polo, and the traitor part of his brain makes him wonder what Steve tastes like, what Steve would do if he crowded in close and licked up the water droplet sliding down his neck. Before Billy can say anything, try to up his street cred or whatever, Steve gets this wicked look on his face, all full of confidence and bluster. 

“You got a brain under all that pretty blonde hair after all, eh, Hargrove?” he teases, then breaks into fucking song like he’s a disney princess or something, only the song’s not very nice. 

“ _This dumb blonde ain’t no-ooh-oh-body’s fool,_ ” he warbles, big cheesy fuckin’ grin on his face. Instantly, Billy’s got his dander up, like a cat chased into a corner. God, Steve knows just what to say to piss him off in about five seconds flat. 

“Harrington,” he says as pleasantly as he’s capable of doing, which, judging from the alarmed look on El’s face, is not real pleasant, “would you like to go outside with me so that I can smoke a cigarette? It’s probably time that we took a break from studying, El.”

“Wow, Hargrove, I didn’t know you had such an impressive grasp on correct grammar,” Steve snipes as he puts his coat back on. He stands by the door while Billy swallows giant bites of waffle sandwich whole like a snake or some shit and shoves his arms into his leather jacket. He _really_ doesn't want El to hear this conversation, no matter how it goes.

Billy’s lighting up his cigarette before they’re off the fucking porch. Where the _hell_ is Hopper? If Hopper decided to be purposefully late to avoid having to bear witness to this dumpster fire of a conversation, Billy will for real never forgive him. 

He crashes through the underbrush to the designated smoking clearing, sucking on his cigarette like it’s gonna give him something smart to say through osmosis. 

“What song were you singin’, earlier? It sounded like country, and Hawkins might be the backwater of civilization, but that doesn’t mean you’ve gotta listen to the worst music in the world. I keep tellin’ Hopper that, but he just keeps playing me Hank Williams like I’m gonna change my mind.” Billy can’t stop talking, suddenly, wants nothing more than to hear Steve talk about anything other than what he’s here to talk about. 

Steve follows behind, slower, but when he gets to the clearing he holds out his hand expectantly. Billy looks at him like he’s got four heads, and Steve just waggles his fingers, like, share. Billy pulls a cigarette from the pack, slaps it into Steve’s hand. 

“It’s Dolly Parton. My mom loves her, even though my dad calls her trashy. She’s a fucking genius, she’s made a bajillion dollars making music about how dumb people think she is.” Steve’s suddenly more animated than Billy’s seen him in a long while, and Billy has no idea what to do, what to say, in the face of such incandescent excitement. Steve gestures at him all snippy, asking for a lighter probably. He’s got this prissy little annoyed look on his face, and Billy despairs at himself, ‘cause he thinks it’s _cute_. There's no hope for him. 

“Wouldn’ta pegged you for a smoker, pretty boy,” Billy finally says, “Aren’t you worried about keeping those lungs’a yours all pretty and pink?” Billy flicks his Zippo open, holds his hands steady around the flame, gets real close to Steve’s face as he lights Steve’s cigarette for him. He gets a good look at Steve’s eyes from this distance. They look brown, from a distance, but this close, he can see the little greenish flecks around Steve’s irises.

One time he made out with this girl in Cali who had eyes kinda like Steve’s, but when he’d kissed her real good, they’d kinda changed color, and by the time he’d pulled away her eyes had been almost green. He wonders if Steve’s eyes would turn like that, if Billy kissed him real good, like he deserves to be kissed. 

“You don’t know, like, anything about me, Hargrove,” Steve says, rolling his eyes a little. “Nothing more than anyone else at school knows, really. I wouldn’t’a pegged you for a menthol smoker, you know? I thought _menthols are for girls_ or something.” He sounds dismissive, like he doesn’t care at all, and Billy wants to punch him, wants to wrap him up and kiss him forever. He doesn’t do either, though. 

“Listen, Harrington, I told my little sister _and_ Hopper I’d apologize, so. Sorry. I shouldn’t’ve kicked the shit out of you the other night. It wasn’t fair to keep hitting once I’d already knocked your pansy ass out.” He _knows_ he’s fucking this up; he apologized to Henderson better than this, and Henderson makes Billy want to scoop his eyeballs out on practically a daily basis. He can’t stop himself, though, wants to trade insults or punches or— _or kisses_ , the traitor part of his brain whispers.

“I’m not here to get talked down to,” Steve says, real cool. How does he _know_ that talking to Billy like that’s going to get Billy so fucking fired up? He feels like he did last time, right before he knocked Steve to the ground; it’s this weird surge of energy, of excitement and fear and anger and, he suddenly realizes, not an insignificant amount of arousal. 

“Alright Harrington, whadda ya want? Want me to lick your boots? Want me to carry your books to class and tell everyone you’re better’n me? They all already know that. Can’t you just, fucking, take the apology?” Billy snarls back. He feels like his skin’s too small. He tries to take deep breaths, tries to count to ten or twenty or a thousand, if he has to. He can’t hit Steve again. Even if Hopper wouldn’t kick him out for fighting, he _won't_ hurt Steve again.

“Nah, I don’t take apologies from people who don’t mean them, and I _certainly_ don’t forgive people who only apologize so they don’t get in trouble.” _Jesus_ , it’s like Steve doesn’t care about any of this _at all_ , it’s like Billy could be a fuckin’ _insect_ as far as Steve’s concerned. The anger bubbles over; there’s no amount of deep breaths or counting that could keep him from exploding now.

“Listen, asshole, I’m only making nice with you to get everybody off my fuckin’ back. I wish I woulda never fought you, because now I haveta fuckin’ talk to you about it. I shoulda just left my sister with you to die, huh? I should’ve just taken my ass home and gotten all my teeth bashed in, would that make you fuckin’ happy? You’ve got _no fucking idea_ what the hell is going through my mind, what kinda pressure I’m under. 

“You know what? Fuck this. I’m done here. Tell Hopper I’ll come get my shit in the morning.” He can’t breathe with the hurt. He’s already forgotten what he said, but he’ll probably never forget the fucking _pity_ written clear on Steve’s beautiful fuckin’ face. 

“I don’t need your fucking pity, either, pretty boy. Just cuz you’ve never had anything fucked up happen in your life, other than all this monster sci-fi Steven King shit, doesn’t mean you get to judge me.” 

He’s panting with effort, hoarse with screaming. By some small gift of fate, his keys are in his jacket pocket. He’s still got his weed stashed in the glovebox, too, and as he stalks off towards where his car’s parked, he’s already planning the fat joint he’s gonna roll. He gets in his car, starts it—and realizes that _fucking_ Harrington’s _fucking_ Beemer is _fucking_ blocking him in. 

“HARRINGTON,” he roars out the window, “MOVE YOUR _FUCKING_ CAR.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babies!! 
> 
> First of all just let me summarize this whole work in meme format:  
>  _Nobody:_  
>  _Billy Hargrove:_ I've never had an emotion in my whole life before, why would you say that?
> 
> We've all made it through this monster of a chapter! You should be proud, this is a whole lot of bad times to deal with. I promise I'll fix it, eventually. Feel free to yell at me in the comments, I love hearing what y'all like and don't like and just, like, have opinions about. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Spoiler-y warnings:**
> 
>   * _Outing:_ Max outs Billy to Dustin and Lucas, which she immediately regrets. She makes them promise not to tell anyone, and, I promise as the author, they will not break that promise. Billy is not placed in a position of danger or harm by this action, even in future installments of this work. Max clearly a lot of shame and anxiety about having outed Billy. 
>   * _Panic Attack:_ Max has what we can safely assume is a panic attack, or the beginnings of one, after she realizes what her outing Billy could potentially mean. I did my best not to describe it in too specific detail, but be careful with yourselves!
> 

> 
> **A brief note about outing from the author, who is a huge Mom Friend(tm):** Outing someone else without their explicit is _never_ okay! You should _never_ out someone, even to your friends, even if you're trying to avoid the person you're outing having to out themselves, without talking to the person directly and asking if it's okay to tell people. I, dear readers, am totally chill with being out; it doesn't bother me when people I know tell people I don't know that I'm bi. Many, _many_ other people are bothered by being outed. This being said, Max is a teenager who's frontal cortex ain't done cookin' yet, so her impulse control skills aren't exactly great. I know I outed plenty of people when I was a teen, not with malicious intent but because I didn't know it wasn't cool to tell other people that somebody's gay. So, basically, learn from my and Max's mistakes and **don't out people without their permission!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Some misc. notes:**
> 
>   * The title for this chapter comes, of course, from _I Want to Break Free_ , by Queen.
>   * The very good song Steve sings to Billy is _Dumb Blonde_ by Dolly Parton.
>   * I know this was supposed to have Steve's point of view, which it does a little but not as much as I had planned on it having. THE THING IS this was already like twenty pages long and I've written like eight pages of the next chapter and still haven't gotten to Steve. I cannot, in good conscience, give you a 20K chapter right after a 6K chapter. 
>   * I went on an hour-long deep dive into skateboarding culture in the eighties yesterday for, like, less than a page of payoff, but it was really interesting and I'd recommend it highly tbh. The Hags were a real life ALL GIRL SKATEBOARD GANG in '82 and '83 in Santa Monica, and they sound like the dopest fucking ladies on the block. [Read all about them here!](https://bust.com/living/18944-hell-on-wheels.htm)
>   * Also, a thing I meant to put in the last chapter's notes and forgot: [there's a website](http://www.j-archive.com/) where you can look at almost every _Jeopardy!_ episode _ever_ 's categories, questions, and answers. it's, honestly, so entertaining. The _Jeopardy!_ questions, categories, etc. from last chapter (and all future chapters I include them in) are historically accurate (although they don't have the data for November 1984 so I had to make do with the 5/14/1986 episode sorry not sorry.)
>   * _Me, a big fucking penguins fan with a furious hatred for (a) the racist bl*ckh*wks org and (b) patrick “rapist, antisemite asshole” kane in particular:_ Shit, I made Hopper a Chicago fan...whatever, he hates the Hawks too. 
>   * ETA: So I totally forgot to explain what a titty baby is. It's regional slang, I guess, if "regional slang" means "I started saying it with one friend when were were very, very drunk and now everyone I now says it." Basically a titty baby is, in its truest form, a baby who can't do anything without being attached to its nursing parent's titty. It means anybody who's a big whiner; it's used basically anywhere other people would use the word "p*ssy" in the pejorative.
> 

> 
> **In the next chapter: Steve's side of things; a shopping trip; Thanksgiving!**


	4. my baby don't talk sweet (he ain't got much to say)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Billy becomes an accidental voyeur, Steve goes to the library and becomes an interior designer, and Hopper laughs himself nearly sick.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!!  
> Sorry I didn't have a chapter up yesterday; I don't exactly have a posting schedule or anything, but I really _really_ wanted to have a chapter up. 
> 
> I have a chronic illness/genetic disorder/whatever and I'm right in the middle of a flareup. I was a little dopey with pain meds, so I didn't write because I wanted y'all to, uh, be able to make sense of what the hell was going on. THAT BEING SAID, this chapter is not exactly the chapter I promised y'all; I started writing Steve and I couldn't stop. There will be thanksgiving and shopping, but it'll be next chapter. 
> 
> **A QUICK WARNING:** In this chapter, there's a description of what bisexuality is, or at least what it was as a concept in the 80's. Because it's the eighties, it's a little bit bioessentialist, so it's kind of transphobic/exclusionary. I don't believe that bisexuality means only being attracted to people whose sex assigned at birth both "matches" and "is opposite of" the bisexual person's sex assigned at birth, but I'm going for a little bit of period accuracy here. Also, I do mention the Kinsey scale, which is a handy dandy little scale to use but is by no means a real or complete picture of sexuality!
> 
> Fun notes are at the end of the chapter; I'll see y'all there!

With shaking hands, Billy rolls the windows all the way up, puts in his Black Flag tape, turns the radio up all the way, and waits for Harrington to move his stupid fucking rich kid car. As soon as he’s sure he’s not gonna smash his back bumper on the BMW, he puts a lead foot down on the gas pedal. Dirt spits out from his tires, but it doesn’t keep him from seeing the sad, lonely look in Steve’s eyes. 

He passes Hopper’s cruiser on the way back from the fucking woods, but he just puts his foot down a little harder, speeds faster past him. Hopper doesn’t pop a u-turn, doesn’t come after him lights flashing, so he figures Hopper was just trying to get rid of him, sending Steve over to needle him until he decided to leave of his own accord. 

Well, Billy thinks, he succeeded. Fuck this town, and all the people in it, and the meddling fucking kids, and his good-for-nothing old man, and especially and particularly _fuck Steve fucking Harrington_. He burns rubber around a few turns, chain smokes cigarettes as he speeds down the back roads out of town. With the tears running down his face, blocking his eyes and shit, he probably shouldn’t be going this fast around the curves, but. He can’t make himself care too much. 

Billy finds himself back on Lovers’ Lane, eventually, though, right near the quarry. Now that he’s burned off some of his excess energy and frustration, he can sit still for long enough to roll a decent joint. He parks, turns down the volume because he can hear his mom worrying in the back of his head about how _if you don’t turn your music down, honey, you’re gonna go deaf before you turn forty_.

He’s just sealing the long edge of the joint with his tongue when another car pulls in next to him. If it’s Hopper, or, God forbid, Harrington, he might just drive off the cliff into the fucking water in the quarry. 

Somehow, it’s worse. As he sparks up, gets the joint burning even, he rolls down his window so the whole car doesn’t smell like weed for the rest of time, and parked right there next to him is Jonathan fucking Byers’ fucking _hearse_ of a Buick. He can see Nancy _fucking_ Wheeler in the passenger seat. Byers is looking over at her, and as Billy watches, Byers wraps his creepy, long-fingered hands around the back of her head and pulls her in for a kiss. 

Honestly, based on what he knows of Nancy Wheeler’s bullshit prude act and Byers’ exceptional lack of general charisma, he’s pleasantly surprised. She makes a pretty, shocked little sound, loud enough Billy can hear it clearly even though their windows are up, and puts her sharp little claws into his shoulders to pull him in closer. 

They sit there making out for a while, and by the time Billy’s halfway through his joint, the windows of Byers' hearse are all fogged up. They must get annoyed by having the gearshift between them, though, because after a while Nancy’s door clicks open. She’s getting out, moving toward the backseat, her cute little sweater all rucked up. Her hair’s fucked; he thinks he can understand now, why Harrington’s still all emotional about her, why Byers would risk a major ass-kicking to get close to her. 

He’d still never touch her, though; his mom had had this saying, way back when, about how _if somebody cheats on their partner with you, they’re gonna cheat on you when you’re their partner_. Besides, of the two of them, he’d choose Steve every day, forever. She glances over at his car, cheeks all flushed, to make sure nobody's watching or something, and makes eye contact with him. 

It’s like someone’s poured ice water over the top of her head. She looks like the girls in horror movies are supposed to look like, right before the murderer stabs ‘em. 

“Billy—” she breathes. 

“What’d you say, Nance?” Byers says in this dopey, drugged-out fuckin’ voice. _God_ , the idea of his sex noises is a _horror_. Billy, suddenly, can’t stop fucking imagining it. This is what he gets, he thinks, for smoking homegrown. 

This is what he deserves, for being such an asshole to Steve and Hopper and El and Max and everybody fuckin’ else. Now the idea of exactly what Jonathan Byers sounds like, having an orgasm, is playing on a loop in his brain forever. Byers’s head pops out of the back seat, and Billy can’t help but fucking laugh; he looks like a cartoon or something, and Billy’s imagination’s version of Byers’ sex noises is still looping through his brain. Plus, if he doesn’t laugh, he’s probably just gonna burst into tears, and if Nancy Wheeler ever sees him cry he’ll have to throw himself on the nearest sword to save face. 

“Billy.” Wheeler says, planting her feet, “What the _fuck_ are you doing here _alone_? Like I would understand if you had some _girl_ with you, but—” she trails off. She’s trying to fix her sweater, now, like _that’s_ gonna make any kind of difference. 

Byers is sitting up, now, his brain catching up with what the fuck is going on around him. Billy feels like he’s floating, like the world is just making his life the worst it can possibly be. He can’t stop laughing. His ribs hurt. He tries to catch his breath, but he just can’t stop laughing. 

Byers apparently takes offense to Billy, laughing hysterically at the two of them, caught _in flagrante_ , because he gets out of the car, adjusts himself self-righteously, and comes over to the Camaro. 

“Can I help you with something?” Byers asks, trying his best to be threatening. It’s, like, the polar opposite of threatening. Creepy, maybe, but certainly not threatening, especially with his Whitesnake tryin' to say hello to the world. Billy actually, truly, _cannot_ stop laughing. He’s gonna break another rib, laughing like this. He feels like a hyena, just barking laughter in Byers’ stupid fuckin’ face. 

“You—she—” Billy tries, then gives up and closes his eyes, leans back in his seat, and fucking loses it. 

Nancy stomps her little foot on the gravel of the shoulder, and it sends him into another fit of hysterics. She looks like a little kid throwing a tantrum. Byers ushers her into the car, gets in the driver’s seat, and yells “FUCK you, ASSHOLE!” out Nancy’s open window as he drives away. 

It takes another five minutes before he stops laughing long enough to roll up the window. What a fuckin’ night, he thinks, still breathing heavy; he almost punches Steve Harrington in his pretty mouth again, fucking kicks himself out of the house, then gets to see exactly why Wheeler left Steve for Byers. 

He puts the rest of the joint back in the glovebox, rolls up his window, and settles himself as comfortably as he can under his leather jacket. He’s almost asleep when he remembers what his mom always said about crying: _rub in the tears, it’ll make your skin look better the next day_. He sure fuckin’ hopes so. 

 

Billy’s been sleeping in fits and starts for a few hours, curled up until his ribs force him to lay back flat until his left shoulder forces him to curl up again, when he hears the sound of another car, crunching to a stop on the shoulder. Instantly, he wakes up, on high alert. He glances to his right, and there’s Hopper’s fucking cruiser. 

What the hell does Hopper even want? Billy’s gonna go pick up his stuff later, when he’s gotten a little more sleep. Maybe he’s just brought all of Billy’s stuff, so Billy doesn’t even have to go back into the house. 

He feels kinda bad, honestly, thinking about El. She doesn’t deserve to be run out on like that, just like Max didn’t deserve to be run out on. He thinks back to his own sperm donor, running out on his mom before he was even born. Maybe that asshole had the right idea—if they don’t know you, they can’t miss you so bad, right?

Hopper knocks on the passenger-side window, pulls once on the door handle. Against his better judgement, Billy unlocks the door. Hopper slides in, grunts a little at how low the car is to the ground. It probably isn’t great for his fucked up leg, Billy thinks, remembering how after a long day Hopper’s got to ice his left knee down for an hour or two before the swelling goes down. 

“Have you cooled down yet, son?” Hopper says, sniffing sharply and wiping at his nose. 

Billy looks at him, doesn’t answer. What the fuck does Hopper care?

“I get it,” Hop says after they sit in silence for a while. “Having to leave so you don’t lose your shit. 

“El was pretty upset, when you left without sayin’ anything.” Well, great, now Billy feels awful. “But I made Steve explain what happened, and after he left El and I had a long conversation about it, about how sometimes there’s nothing you can do but walk away from an argument. 

“Steve wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened, but he did say both of you were being, and I quote, ‘dipshits’ the whole time. From what he said, I don’t think you did anything wrong, other than making El nervous that you were gonna leave her. 

“I’ll give you a pass on apologizing properly to Steve for right now,” Hop goes, like it’s some great gift or something, “and El and I both want you to come home. But Steve’s still gonna be at the house some, working on this case with me. All I ask is that you’re civil with each other. He promised he would be if you were, which is the most high-school shit I’ve ever heard.

“So, you ready to come home? Or you need some more time to figure yourself out?”

It’s quiet in the car; now that Hopper’s in the car, it’s not so cold you can see your breath, but it’s still fucking _cold_ , colder than it ever got in California, that’s for sure. 

“Okay,” Billy says, real quiet.

“Alright, thank god, El woke me up half an hour ago and told me I was kicked out of the house until you decided to come home. She said she’d make us breakfast, though, so there’s that at least.” 

Hopper claps him on his good shoulder, pushes himself out of the car with one of those noises every dad in the whole world makes, and heads for his car. Halfway there, he pauses, looks over his shoulder. Billy rolls down the window, already expecting some ridiculous nugget of Hopper wisdom.

“You know, son, my wife and I used to argue like that; it made great foreplay.” he says, laughing a little. Maybe the limestone’ll give way and the Camaro will fall with it, so Billy never has to think about Hopper having sex, or, even worse, think about _Hopper thinking about Billy having sex_. 

“What the hell’re you talking about?” Billy says, pretending like he has no fucking clue what Hopper’s insinuating. He’s so blinded with embarrassment that he barely hears Hopper’s last comment as he drives off.

“Make sure you air out your car on the way back to the house, you dope-smokin’ idiot!”

Billy wishes harder that the earth will swallow him up, but there’s this little flicker of hope in his belly. Hopper didn’t sound disgusted, didn’t sound like he was gonna start throwing _cocksucker_ or _limp-wrister_ around. Hopper wants him to come back, and so does El. Plus, Hopper hadn’t arrested him for possession, hadn’t even tried to confiscate the weed he’s obviously got somewhere in the car.

He has a good feeling about today, somehow. 

___________________________________

Steve knows better, than to make a joke about somebody being dumb. He _hates it_ when the shitheads make jokes about how he doesn’t know who exactly was into the Final Solution or how to read a recipe, which, to be fair, _tbsp_ and _tsp_ are _literally_ one letter away from being the same word, okay? You make _one batch_ of salty pancakes and you’re a laughingstock forever. 

Anyways, he doesn’t like it when people call him dumb, and he actually is a little dumb. _Billy_ , though, who Nancy’s been complaining about coming for her valedictorian status? Billy _definitely_ doesn’t deserve to be called stupid. 

He didn’t even mean to call Billy stupid, really, it’s just that, if anyone he knows is like Dolly Parton, it’s him. Billy knows he looks good, if a little roughed up for most girls’ dads probably. He knows how to use his slightly crooked little jaw to charm moms and daughters alike, how to get the guy at the shitty liquor store on the edge of town to give him the good stuff, even though the guy who works there _definitely_ knows Billy’s not even eighteen yet. 

Dolly’s the same way, uses her charm and the way she looks to get people to drop their guards, then shows them how much better than them she is, how much smarter she can be. Steve really admires it, in both of them, mostly because it’s not a thing he’s ever really been able to do. 

 

His dad can, and so can his mom; it’s like they were both born with some schmoozing gene that helps them make friends with senators and get contracts signed that no one else can. Every time his parents bring him to one of their boring, stuffy rich friends’ parties, his dad gives him this look Steve’s come to learn means _please try not to embarrass us until we’re done making this deal, for the love of God_. 

He’s just not great, at playing the whole game. He did it for a long time at Hawkins High, but it wasn’t exactly hard to do; he’s cute enough, he knows, and using all the techniques he’s seen his mom use got him through almost all of high school. 

When Nancy came around, though, Steve’d been willing to risk it all, not that high school popularity is all it’s cracked up to be. And when Billy had torn into town like a tornado or a hailstorm or something else beautiful and brutal and a little bit dangerous, Steve’d known it was over for him.

He loves smart people. He loves smart people who aren’t assholes about it even more, which is why he doesn’t really miss Nancy all that much. Hearing her tirade about how all he does is bullshit, all he is is bullshit, was pretty shitty, but she wasn’t _wrong_. He’d had to try really hard to keep up with her, then fill in the gaps in his knowledge with faking it. He’d known she’d get bored of him eventually, but he sure as hell didn’t expect her to get more excited by _Jonathan Byers_ , of all people. 

Anyways, he’s done thinking about Nancy, at least in that way. She’s still his friend, still the only one who knows about what he’s into. He’s still stuck on Billy, on the neon of who Billy is; it’s like Billy’s one of those stars that explodes, goes supernova; you can’t help looking at him, even though it hurts your eyes a little.  
So he says something stupid to Billy, _sings_ something stupid to Billy, which is so much worse because now everyone in the whole world is probably gonna hear about how much of a weirdo Steve is, singing other dudes Dolly Parton. 

The problem is he _loves_ getting a rise out of Billy. He just--he craves Billy’s eyes on him, burning him up from the inside out. If there’s no other way to do it than by pissing him off, Steve’ll piss him off forever. He thinks back to what Billy said during their fight, about how Steve lost his fire, but if you ask Steve (not that anyone does, except Dustin and maybe Nancy sometimes), Billy’s the one who’s lost his fire. 

He’s still going through the motions, still going to school and flirting outrageously with teachers in the hall and roaring into the school parking lot with whatever loud, cool music he’s into that day and wearing his fucking shirts halfway open and snapping his gum, but Billy seems like he’s playing a part, now. It’s like he’s always got something more important on his mind. 

Steve wants to be the most important thing on Billy’s mind, which he was fucked up about for all of, oh, a week. 

 

“Steve,” Nancy had sighed when he showed up at her house the day after the gate closed, “You need to stay away from Billy.” 

“I just--he tried to hurt the kids. I can’t just _leave him alone_. He kicked my ass which, whatever, it’s not like he hasn’t tried before, but Lucas and Dustin and Mike were scared shitless, _are_ scared shitless. Dustin called me three times today already, just to make sure Billy hasn’t come around to try to finish me off.” These are all very rational reasons for keeping an eye on Billy, Steve thinks. 

“C’mon, Steve, don’t be an idiot,” Nancy says all huffy, “You spend _all your time_ thinking about him. You did even when we weren’t on a break or whatever. It’s not healthy, to spend this much time thinking about a guy who’d definitely win in a fight, who’s already won in a fight. 

“Why do you feel like you’ve gotta beat him? Just leave him alone, he’ll figure out you don’t want to be around him eventually.” 

“Guys like that hate being left alone,” Steve replies, “And I don’t think he’s that bad of a guy, underneath it all, really. I mean, Max told Lucas who told Dustin who told me that his dad really doesn’t like him, said his dad’s really mean to him and shit.”

“Steve, you know I don’t like it when you swear at me,” she goes, and he thinks back to all the times his mom’s said _literally the exact same thing_ , feels a little gross about it now. “And anyways, it doesn’t matter _why_ he beat you into a pulp, it matters that he _did_. You don’t need to, like, examine his motives or anything!” She’s a little shrill now, and he almost says what he’s thinking, which is: _so it doesn’t matter why you cheated on me, since you did?_ He doesn’t say that, though. He may be stupid, but he isn’t dumb. 

“I just think you should give him a chance to change! Hopper called me earlier, said that Billy’s gonna be in trouble at home, so maybe it’ll give him the push he needs to be better.” Nancy rolls her eyes at him, and then they have this weird talk that’s, like, A Real Breakup.

It’s awkward and weird, but she tells him about six times that she doesn’t want him to feel alone, that she and Jonathan are there for him and he can hang out with them whenever, and it honestly kinda sounds like she means it, so he’s not that upset. 

And, on Monday, he hears from Yvette in his Brit Lit class and basically everyone who knows who he is (including Carol, which is fucking _weird_ , considering she hasn’t talked to him in weeks) that Billy Looks Terrible, and what exactly did he do to the guy, and that he should’ve stopped before he’d put Billy in a sling, which, _what the fuck?_

He calls Nancy, when he gets home, and she says that he looks way worse than he looked on Sunday. She says Billy looks _awful_ , but that he kind of deserves whatever happened because of what he did to Steve, and Steve--Steve hangs up on her. 

He calls Hopper up at the station, because who the hell else is he supposed to call, who else would know anything about it? Hopper sounds like he’s really Working Through Some Shit, but he says that Billy’s living with him now, that something bad happened to Billy at his house. Immediately, Steve asks if Max is safe, because, of course he does, she’s the only one who’s ever even pretended to listen to him in The Party or whatever the kids call themselves, and Hopper doesn’t sound super worried, so. 

That just leaves Billy for Steve to worry about. After a few days, he realizes he’s not just worried for Billy’s safety like he’s worried about everyone who’s gotten involved with the Big Upside Down Secret Thing, he’s worried about Billy because he _cares_ about Billy. He doesn’t know what that means, and he tries to just, like, leave it alone. He tries his best to stay away from Billy, while he figures it out, but Hopper calls him and asks him to start looking into Dr. Brenner for him, tells him it’ll be _good experience_. 

 

He’s not sure why Hop doesn’t ask Nancy, who’s smart as hell and hardworking, or Billy, as a favor for letting him live at the cabin, especially since he knows Billy’s booksmart too. When he asks Hopper why, Hopper won’t really elaborate too much, just says he thinks Steve’ll be good at it. Steve blushes, which embarrasses him even though he’s on the phone and he knows Hopper can’t see him. Its kinda nice, having someone think he’s capable of something so important. 

Hopper gives Steve the numbers of a bunch of police departments, tells him to say he’s a deputy looking for some additional information on a cold case or something. He starts hanging out at the public library a lot, too, looking for references to Dr. Brenner in the big newspapers they keep records of on microfiche. The librarian seems really skeptical that Steve has any idea what he’s doing, but he just uses his big Doe Eyes and says he’s trying to do a research project about sports coverage for his English class and she teaches him how to use the machine.

It’s probably the first time he’s ever been interested in reading the paper, in reading anything at all, really. It’s like--a puzzle, almost, when you first open the box and have to find the edge pieces so it starts to make sense. You have to work outside in, he realizes, and it’s almost fun. Is this why Nancy likes school shit? Because, if you care about what you’re trying to figure out, it’s nearly all-consuming. 

Coach keeps yelling at Steve to plant his feet, but Steve’s too concerned with whether the unnamed scientist who gave an incredibly obtuse pull-quote to the _Pittsburgh Post-Gazette_ about human experimentation in an article about medical ethics is Dr. Brenner or some other egghead to listen. Tommy pushes him down, again, and Steve almost quits the basketball team right then and there. 

He can’t, though, feels guilty that Billy’s quit the basketball team because of him. He could’ve quit first; he isn’t really even that interested in basketball. His dad played, though, so even though Steve’s always been way more interested in hockey, he’s been playing basketball since he was like seven. His mom’s been way cooler about hockey; she’s been the one to buy him new gear every year for Christmas, takes his skates to get sharpened every time they come home during the winter.

He’s having a hard time sleeping now, too, in his empty house. He tries to stay out of the house as much as possible, now, in general. Dustin’s mom loves him, thinks he’s God’s Gift to Nerds or something. She feeds him, like, 4 nights a week, and she corners him regularly to say how thankful she is that _Dusty’s got a good, healthy role model who’s in touch with his feminine side_ ; he’s pretty sure she’s smelled the Farrah Fawcett in his hair, because he saw the same thing in her bathroom the other day when Dustin was in the guest bathroom and he had to pee. 

Regardless of what she thinks of his masculinity, Steve’s just glad he gets to go to a house that feels lived-in. Sometimes his house feels like a museum or something, like the Frank Lloyd Wright house his dad had dragged Steve and his mom to see last year, even though it was under construction and they couldn’t look at the top floor at all. It had made him feel weird, like the house didn’t care who or what lived in there; you couldn’t move stuff around, really. It didn’t seem like a house real people lived in, is all he’s saying, and neither does his house. 

 

When he picks Dustin and Lucas up from Goose’s, he drops Lucas off first. He usually does, considering he’s usually on his way to eat whatever delicious meal Ms. Henderson’s decided to make. It’s baked ziti tonight, she told him this morning when he came by to pick up Dustin, and that’s basically his favorite meal.  
So, Dustin’s sitting in the front seat, on the way home, and he just out of nowhere goes “How do you decide to be gay?” 

Steve’s floored. Why does Dustin think _he_ knows shit like this? What does he even _mean?_ He’s not sure, exactly, but he’s pretty sure it’s not a thing you just get to, like, pick. Like, he’s pretty sure you just are or you aren’t. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure you can be both; there was this girl his cousin Eloise introduced him to when he went to visit her at college who was dating a girl but had just broken up with her boyfriend or something? Maybe you do get to pick? Maybe you’re just, like, born liking both?

“I don’t think you do?” he replies to Dustin, after a weird silence filled with DeBarge’s _Rhythm of the Night_ , which Dustin hates but usually likes to mimic the flute solo of. “Like, I think it’s one of those things you are or you aren’t. Why do you wanna know? Are you, uh, feeling...like that?” 

“NO,” Dustin yells, “It was just a CURIOSITY. I’ve actually been planning to talk to this girl, on Friday night, at the basketball game?” 

Dustin keeps the subject on this girl, Stacey, who sounds cute but terrible by Dustin’s descriptions of all the times she’s asked for his biology notes and called him the wrong name. He’s been trying to guide Dustin towards that quiet girl, Clementine or whatever, who’s in his math class and who blushes, like, every time she makes eye contact with Dustin, but if Dustin wants to try to shoot his shot with the popular girl, who is Steve to burst his bubble? 

Steve doesn’t force the issue, of why Dustin wants to know about being gay, but on the drive back to his empty house, he thinks about it. He’s pretty sure Lucas and Max are into each other. Max did look kinda weird earlier, but if she’s gay or whatever it’s called if you’re a girl, why did she keep sneaking looks at Lucas and blushing? He’s pretty sure its not either of them, though. Mike is clearly and blatantly into El, and he gets the feeling that if El weren’t into Mike, she’d just throw him across the room and call it a good breakup, so it's probably not them either.

Maybe it’s Will? But, with all the stuff Will’s been going through, he probably hasn’t even had time to think about who he’s into, much less about how one decides to be gay. It bothers him all through his trig homework, but by the time he’s done with that and struggling through the scenes of _Romeo and Juliet_ he’s supposed to have read for tomorrow, he’s almost forgotten it. 

 

So, anyways, he’s found a couple references to Brenner in the paper, and he’s called a few police departments even though most of them just want to send stuff directly to Hopper, if they even have stuff to send, and he asked Mr. Clarke about where to get medical journals and he’d just, like, given Steve a whole bunch of them. There’s one article that has Brenner’s name on it, a few more that have the stink of the kind of messed-up shit Brenner’s into on them that he thinks Hopper would be curious to see. 

He calls Hopper up, like two weeks later, after he sees Billy at the arcade, and Hopper tells him to come over Friday night. He also says Billy’ll be there, and that Billy has something to talk to him about. Steve’s pretty sure Hopper’s not gonna send him into an ambush, so he agrees. 

 

He realizes, too, that he’s been kind of avoiding Billy. He’s caught a few glances, here and there, of how shitty Billy looks, how uninterested he seems in school and shit, but he’s somehow accidentally been trying not to set himself up to see Billy directly like he used to. He’s curious, though, to see if Billy just seeing him around will be enough to get some kind of response, some flicker of life. 

He goes back to all his old routines: taking up a ton of space in the caf when he eats his lunch there instead of in the library, reading through medical journals he doesn’t really understand; taking an impromptu water break when he sees Billy through the window of the door in the gym; parking a hell of a lot closer to Billy’s beautiful, dangerous Camaro than he really should. All he sees is Billy, all he fucking _thinks about_ for a few days is Billy or that asshole Brenner. He feels like he can’t drink enough water, like his mouth is perpetually dry. 

(Just the way it used to be when he thought about Nancy, he realizes once. He shoves that thought to the back of his mind; there’s just _no way_ it’s the same. His body probably just knows he’s going to fight and figures he should be drinking enough water to fight well or something.)

He asks Nancy, after school when he’s about to go get ready for the basketball game, if it’s normal, to think about your biggest rival this way.

“...No.” she says, after this weird, long pause, like she’s got something more to say but she’s not gonna say it. 

“Nance, just tell me what the hell you’re thinking. I know you’ve got something to say about this,” he pleads, a little pissy that she’s not being helpful. 

“Are you sure? You can’t just, like, pretend I haven’t said it, once I say it,” she warns, and now he’s worried, but he can’t sit here and pretend like he’s not going crazy with curiosity. 

“Yeah, just tell me, how bad can it be?” 

“Okay, Steve, I just--I think you might have--do you remember when we first started dating?” she finally says, and now he’s _really_ fucking confused. 

“Uh, yeah, why?” he goes, like a fucking idiot, but what the _hell_ is she getting at? He’s lost. 

“Okay, so when we first started dating you just wanted to talk to me all the time--which I didn’t mind--” she stresses, “but you just kept asking me what I was thinking, what I was feeling, why I did this or that or whatever, and basically all you’ve said to me for the past week is _do you think Billy’s doing okay_ and _what do you think Billy’s thinking_ and _why did Billy quit the basketball team, I hope he doesn’t miss it_ and stuff like that. 

Steve still doesn’t get it, feels like he’s three steps behind. Then, as she looks at him with her patented I Believe In You, You’ll Get There Eventually, Idiot face on, it fucking _hits him_ , like a truck or Billy, teaching him how to plant his feet. 

“Yeah, buddy,” Nancy says, a little condescending like she usually is with him when he’s being slow, “You’ve got a crush.”

He’s got-- _what??_ Oh god, now his brain’s just overloaded with _Billy_ , images flickering past his mind’s eye, Billy, shirtless and a little tipsy from a kegstand, glistening with beer and sweat, Billy standing over him, a little threatening in the way that a big cat is threatening before he gives Steve a hand up, Billy leaning in to whisper threats at him, Billy squaring his shoulders before he pushes Steve to the ground, Billy’s fucking _tongue_ , Billy’s hands, Billy’s _ass_ in those stupid-tight jeans, Billy’s _fucking_ saint’s medal glistening between his pecs. 

Steve’s so shaken up by this revelation that he just, like, slides down the wall, sits with his head against a locker and basically absolutely loses his shit, in the least obvious way he can. Nancy folds her legs down, all prim and proper, to sit next to him, pet his hair like he’s sick or something. 

“I can’t have a crush on him--that’s not--he can’t-- _he’s a guy!_ ” he finally whisper-shouts at her.

“Steve, that doesn’t matter,” she says all nice, like she’s trying to soften the blow. “I don’t care who you like, if they’re a boy or a girl or something in between, except that Billy’s kind of a giant asshole who literally beat you unconscious like two weeks ago. Like, your taste is a little objectionable, but it’s not like he’s ugly or anything.”

Steve nods, gulps for air. How the _hell_ is he going to play a basketball game after this, knowing that he’s gonna see Billy, like, _right after?_ He’s gonna get distracted thinking about Billy’s horrible, beautiful hair and the cologne-and-cigarette smoke smell Billy carries everywhere with him and _oh my god_ , he’s never going to be able to do anything ever again, Billy’s made him into a gibbering idiot.

Nancy laughs at him, a little, not mean but amused. 

“I’ve gotta go, Steve, Jonathan’s waiting for me,” she says, and pats his shoulder. “You’d probably better get off the floor. I’ll see you at the game, later, Jonathan and I are bringing the mouthbreathers to see it. Call me, later, after you go see Hopper, though. I imagine you’ll have lots to tell me.”

She always was into gossip, he thinks wryly as he gets up, helps her off the floor and goes into the gym. Visions of Billy keep playing through his head, though; as he’s listening to the mixtape he made himself to get him all amped up before games, all the songs seem to be about Billy. 

_My baby, he don’t talk sweet_ , sings Deniece Williams, and he despairs. _Love don’t come easy, it’s a game of give and take_ , Phil Collins reminds him, which, honestly? Is a little rude. _Why do we scream at each other?_ asks Prince, and Steve falls to the ground on his knees. It might be a little dramatic, but it’s not like there’s anyone there to see him. He has time before he really needs to be here for the game, actually getting ready, so he runs to the library, looks up “gay” in the encyclopedia and doesn’t really get a satisfactory answer. It’s pretty neutral, doesn’t really have a lot to say on the topic, but it does pretty clearly say that you can only be into boys if you’re a boy and girls if you’re a girl.

He’s not gay, then, he thinks with a little internal sigh of relief. He’d liked Nancy, liked the other girls he’s been with. He likes the soft curves of girls, likes their little sighs of pleasure and their soft skin and the slippery wetness between their legs. He _really_ likes getting his mouth on girls, finding the places that make them shiver, the spots that make them grip his hair between their fingers and his head between their thighs like a vice. 

But, he thinks, he’d like to know those places on Billy too. He wants to know the noises Billy makes, when he’s being kissed well, like he deserves to; the pool of warmth in his stomach slithers and multiplies when he imagines his head between Billy’s legs, biting a little at the L-shaped birthmark right at the top of Billy’s left thigh, right where it creases into his groin. He wonder, briefly, whether Billy would bruise up all pretty under Steve’s teeth, what he might _taste like_ , and has to stop himself _immediately_ and think about his dad, talking to him about his plans for the future, to keep from embarrassing himself at the table hidden in the back of the library near the reference section. 

So, he’s not gay, but he’s not normal either. Huh. Is there a word for that? At the bottom of the entry for gay, it says _See Also: Lesbian; Bisexual_. He reads through the first paragraph of the lesbian entry, but it doesn’t really apply to him, so he has to flip back to the Bs. 

_Bisexuality,_ the entry reads, _is a term used to describe sexual and romantic attraction to men and women. Initially, it was thought that there was no true bisexuality, only sexual attraction to the same sex (see “Gay” and/or “Lesbian”) and sexual attraction to the opposite sex (see “Heterosexuality”). However, Dr. Alfred Kinsey’s groundbreaking research, reported in his seminal works_ “Sexual Behavior in the Human Male” _(1948) and_ “Sexual Behavior in the Human Female” (1953), _found that a significant number of both men and women reported sexual behavior with members of both sexes._

It goes on, talks about stigma or something, but Steve can’t stop re-reading the first paragraph. There’s a word for him, for what he is, for what he feels. It’s electric. He feels like he’s gonna cry for a second, but he gets it under control. He’s not exactly sure what the later paragraphs mean about stigma and risks and stuff, but he’s pretty sure if he starts crying in the library, he’s probably gonna get called a queer or something worse. 

He pulls himself together, thanks Ms. Calavera, who was about to leave when he got there but stayed so he could Just Look Up One Super-Important Thing, Thank You!, and goes back to the gym. 

Once he’s in the locker room, listening to _I Want to Break Free_ , he feels weirdly free himself. It’s like now that he has a word for it, it’s real. It’s scary, sure; he knows exactly what his dad thinks about People Like Him, and it’s not exactly positive, but his dad hasn’t liked anything he’s done for approximately eighteen years, so as long as his dad doesn’t find out, he’s probably totally fine. 

He plays the game, halfheartedly; they lose, but he can’t make himself care. He rushes through his post-game shower, partly because he doesn’t want to get caught looking (as if he’d be interested in looking at anyone but Billy, honestly) and partly because he’s just--he just can’t _wait_ to see Billy. 

So, he goes over to Hopper’s, and he sees Billy, sitting there being so nice to El, and part of him thinks why can’t he be that nice to me, and the rest of him thinks, that’s not a cool thing to say to another dude, even if you are interested in him. And so, because he’s at this weird mental impasse where he’s not sure what exactly he wants to say, he opens his mouth and some horrible joke about how Billy’s smarter than he looks comes out and he makes Billy mad. 

When Billy asks him to go outside, he does. It’s so that El doesn’t have to hear them, if they say anything too mean to each other. If Steve pretends, for just a second, it’s so that Billy can give Steve his full attention, nobody’s gonna know, anyways. 

So he bums a cigarette off Billy, to stop himself from going on about Dolly Parton until he says something even more embarrassing or starts flirting with Dolly lyrics or does something even worse like grab Billy and kiss him up against a tree. He’s already a little embarrassed, just thinking about how he can’t say anything without making an ass of himself. He’s a little mean-faced, when he asks for Billy’s lighter, but he’s afraid of what he’ll say if he opens his mouth. Billy leans in close to light it for him, instead, and Steve smells him and imagines Billy leaning in close for other, more fun activities and is just, like, _destroyed_. He thinks about that woman, The Lady of Shallot, who just fuckin' _died_ when she saw that knight she fell in love with on sight, and maybe she wasn't as dramatic as he'd thought when they'd read the poem in Brit Lit.

Billy makes some crack about how Steve doesn’t look like a smoker, or something, and really he usually isn’t. When he was partying more, before he got with Nancy, he used to smoke all the time when he was drunk. He’s used to menthols, though, because he only bummed them off the hot girls who wore their jeans tight and smoked Newports and only drank hard liquor because beer was too many calories. 

He makes a joke about menthols being girly, because he doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t even begun to think about how to talk to Billy, about what he wanted Billy to say and what he’d say back. Billy doesn’t address that little crack, thank god; he just goes right on, talking about how he’s only apologizing because Hopper and Max’re making him. 

It kinda pisses him off, honestly, or, really, it kinda hurts his feelings. He knew Billy wasn’t just gonna, like, turn into a totally different person overnight, and he doesn’t even really mind the person Billy is now, if he was a little nicer to Steve maybe, but he’d thought Billy was at least apologizing to Steve of his own free will or something. Knowing that he isn’t makes Steve _burn_ , makes him want to burn Billy right back. 

Steve knows, from watching his dad and from interacting with his dad, that people who say shit like that wanna get a rise out of the person they’re talking to. So he just--doesn’t. He’s as calm and cool and collected as he can be, and it rips Billy to shreds. 

And then Billy says something awful, something that rips his heart down the center. _I shoulda just left my sister to die?_ he says, and _I shoulda gotten my teeth bashed in for you?_ Steve’s just--speechless. No one should be afraid of their family, at least not physically, and here Billy is, terrified of his old man. He’d known, of course, figured out from what Hopper hadn’t said that Billy’s dad had been the one to fuck him up so bad, but from the way Billy says it, he’d _known_ that his dad was gonna hit him and still went home to face him like a man. 

Steve can’t figure out how to say _I’m so sorry that happened to you_ or _you don’t deserve that_ or _all I want to do is protect you_ ; his stupid mouth is just hanging open as Billy runs to his car like he’s being chased, as he yells out the window with a voice thick with emotion. He thinks, for a brief second, about not moving, about keeping Billy there, but it’s so obvious that Billy needs his space, needs to just go somewhere, that he moves his car, looks at Billy’s tail lights as he tears down the bumpy dirt road and cries a little. 

It’s been a weird day, he excuses it to himself. After a minute or two, El comes out of the house, looking at the place where Billy’s car had been with a deeply suspicious face. She walks over to his car, taps on the window. He wipes away the tears (what tears? he’s not crying.) and rolls down the window. 

“What did you do.” El says, with that weird monotone. 

“He did it too!” Steve squawks, because honestly, it’s not all his fault that Billy’s an asshole who can’t, like, actually care about the people around him. 

“You hurt his feelings.” she says, but then she looks at his face and goes real quiet, anger wiped off her face, replaced by this sadness that she should be too young to feel. “He hurt you, too.”

He nods, helpless to try to explain just how the hell that went so sideways so quickly. He hears tires crunching down the dirt road, hopes against hope that it’s Billy, back to actually talk about his feelings or whatever. It’s Hopper, with a face like a raincloud. There’s a mattress and boxspring hanging out of the back of his truck. 

“Harrington, _what the hell did you do?_ ” he hollers, sounding all disappointed, from the open window. “I just saw Billy speeding down the road like his ass was on fire!”

“WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK IT’S MY FAULT!” Steve wails back. He turns his car off, but instead of getting out, he pillows his head on his arms on the steering wheel. Maybe it’s one of those dreams where you have to go to sleep but you’re really waking up, and when he wakes up he won’t have the word bisexual on his tongue or the memory of Billy’s hurt written large on his face in his mind’s eye. 

He’s faced demodogs and a demogorgon and a goddamn herd of angsty teens, but this is basically the hardest thing he’s ever done, figuring out how to talk to Billy. He knows how to piss Billy off, but he doesn’t really want to anymore. He wants to be _nice_ , wants to tell Billy he’s smart and handsome and deserves nice things. How does he even do that, though?

Before he can, like, die in a fit of emotions like some Oscar Wilde character, thank you British Literature, Hopper comes over and smacks him on the back of the head through the window. 

“I didn’t say it was only your fault, idiot,” Hop says, and it only stings a little. Hopper doesn’t sound like he really thinks Steve’s an idiot, and, to be fair, he did _just_ act like an idiot. 

“I just, he just, _he makes me crazy,_ Hop. I want to say nice things, but he doesn’t let me, and then when he says things to me they’re not nice either and I just--he--I--I don’t know,” Steve despairs, about five seconds from a full-scale emotional meltdown that will only end in him watching the sad black-and-white movies his mom loves and eating cookies-n-cream ice cream in his den at 2 in the morning, crying and trying not to choke to death on Oreo bits. 

“Okay, alright son, just--come help me bring in this mattress, it looks like it’s gonna start raining or something,” Hop says, sounding flustered. Steve stays faceplanted into the steering wheel for a second before he pulls himself together and gets out of the Beemer. 

“What’s this for?” Steve asks as they’re huffing and puffing the mattress onto the porch. “You haven’t got space for it in the house, right?”

“Well,” Hopper starts, this mischievous look on his face, “Billy and I were supposed to get the loft cleared out so he can have a little privacy up there, a little bedroom or somethin’. But since you’re here and he ain’t, and _you_ pissed him off, you're gonna help me clean out the loft. And while we do it, you can tell me what exactly the hell happened.”

 

Steve hates being used for his (not insignificant, he likes to think) physical prowess. But, he thinks as he starts to open his mouth to decline, he remembers that he wants to do something nice for Billy. His legs cut out from under him with heartbreak, he can’t really do much but nod, help Hopper get the mattress situated and start hauling stuff down from the loft. 

Hopper throws most of it out; there’s a box of photos and papers and stuff that it looks like it hurts Hopper to see, but he takes that one real careful, slides it under his bed. The rest of it’s mostly old fishing gear, nasty bedrolls and coolers that, they find out through personal experience, hold some very disgusting beer-water-mold soup that gags the both of them. There’s some old clothes, which El digs through briefly, but everything’s either too big or too small for her, so Hopper takes most of them out to the back of the truck, to dump tomorrow. He keeps almost all the too-small clothes, though, put in their own special box and slid under the bed next to the photos. 

Steve tries not to look at anything too hard; his mom’d said something a while ago about how Hopper’s wife left him after their kid died or something horrible like that, and he _absolutely_ doesn’t want any more details than that. 

“So, Hop, you wanna hear about what I found about, uh,” he starts after about twenty minutes, then stops when Hopper gives him a sharp look, glances over at El, who’s yelling at _Jeopardy!_ but stops every so often to look at them, like she can read their thoughts or something. 

_Thank God_ she can’t, though, he’s been oscillating between thoughts of Billy’s saints’ medal twisted in his fingers as he pulls Billy in close for a kiss and remembering the horrible look on Billy’s face, still a little fucked up from their fight and his dad’s beating and twisted in pain from the stupid shit Steve’d said.

“I’d rather hear what the hell happened between you and Billy,” Hopper says, and Steve might actually die, but he soldiers on manfully. 

“Okay, so I said something stupid to him when I got here,” Steve starts, and El snorts with dry laughter. 

“He called Billy dumb with a song.” El adds, incredibly unhelpful. 

“What song did you sing him?” Hopper says, eyebrows basically in his hairline. 

“Okay, so I got flustered and I made a joke and I sang him…. _DumbBlondeByDollyParton_.” Steve can’t help but say it all in one breath, wishing the whole time that the earth will swallow the cabin whole, taking him with it. 

“You sang him what?” Hopper tries to ask, but he’s choked up with laughter like fuckin’ crazy. Steve can’t help but pout, coming down the ladder from the loft to pour himself a cup of cold water. His mug reads _Study Buddy: keep your study buddy by you as you burn the midnight oil_. It’s the least strange thing in this strange, strange situation: Hopper, who’s had to sit down, he’s laughing so hard; El, glaring daggers at Steve like he’s stolen her last eggo or something; and Steve, so broken up about a boy that he can’t even laugh about the incredibly funny, incredibly dumb thing he said to a boy he likes a whole lot more than he bargained for.

“ _This dumb blonde ain’t nobody’s fool_ ,” El sings, all deadpan, and Hopper has to _lay down_. Hopper’s _literally crying with laughter_ , and Steve’s probably the most miserable he’s even been. 

“Oh my god, kid, no wonder he’s gone, if that’s how you started the conversation,” Hopper wheezes finally, when he’s got enough breath to string together words.

“Yeah, okay, my mouth started running before my brain did, okay!” Steve says, all hunted, “And then he asked me to go outside and he insulted country music which is fine, he hasn’t been shown the glory of Dolly, it’s no big deal, he can be taught, and then he said you were making him apologize and I said I wouldn’t accept it until he meant it, and then we were both acting like dipshits, trying to hurt each other's feelings, and then I made him really upset and HE LEFT!” He’s wailing again, losing his whole shit.

Hopper’s calmed down, a little, and he wipes the last of the tears from his eyes and stands up, comes over to pat Steve on the shoulder. 

“Listen, son, he’s probably just gotta go drive it off. I told him if he hit somebody who didn’t deserve it again, I’d have to maybe kick him out. He made the best choice, probably, in a bad situation. 

“It sounds to me like neither of you were really in listenin’ moods, which is fine I guess. It happens to the best of us. Hell, my old lady and I couldn’t hardly talk some nights without fighting; it didn’t make for great company, but the makeup sex sure was good.” Hopper looks like he didn’t mean to say that, about his wife or ex-wife or whatever, and the _oops_ written clearly across his face is enough to make Steve wanna laugh, if he weren’t so miserable with guilt about Billy. 

“So,” Hopper goes on, once he’s recovered, “I think it’s probably for the best if y’all try it again. I’ll give Bill some time to cool off, but you can come by another night this week to talk about the case, son, and when you do y’all can try to be civil. Can you promise me that?"

"I will, but only if he is, too," Steve pouts, fully aware he sounds like a kindergartener. 

“Also,” Hop says, sounding interested, “Where’d you hear that Dolly song? I wouldn’t’a pegged you for a country fan.” 

“My mom loves her,” Steve says, a little miserable. “She just--she lets people think she’s dumb so she can make them look stupid when she kicks their ass. I just...I thought it was fitting, is all, I know Billy’s smarter than just about anybody at school, but he swaggers around letting everyone think he’s just some dumb burnout.” 

“Ahh, so you meant it as a compliment?” Hopper looks like he’s holding in another laughing fit. “Too bad he didn’t see it that way huh, son?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just starts dragging the boxspring in from the porch. Hopper helps him get the mattress and stuff up, too, and starts stacking stuff on the edge of the loft. Hopper doesn’t say anything when Steve stays up in the loft, making Billy’s bed look all nice and organizing his shit and making his room look--well, nice. He kind of wants to bring Billy some string lights, when he comes back. He bets the white christmas lights his dad bought a few years ago and hasn’t ever put out would make the room look really nice, strung out across the eaves of the cabin. 

When Steve finally stops messing with Billy’s shit and starts down the ladder, he realizes he’s set it up kinda like his own room--clothes to the right of the bed, records and books and stuff to the left. He’d just kind of left all the hair stuff (including the hairspray and the dryer, Steve knew that hair was too perfect to be _au naturel_ or whatever) near the edge of the loft. El goes up to look at the loft as he's getting his coat on, and she gives him a small smile like she approves or something.

Billy still isn’t back, when he gets in the Beemer, but somehow, as Dolly warbles about how _old flames can’t hold a candle to you_ , he feels a little better. Knowing Billy’s got somewhere nice to sleep, with people who care about him, makes his heart a little lighter. And if he cries on the way home, thinking about Nancy and Billy and how she never burned him up the way Billy does, how her flame can’t hold a candle to the way he feels when he looks at Billy, well, no one’s there to see him. 

 

He calls Nancy, too, when he gets home, even though it's a little late to call; maybe she'll know what to do, how to fix what he's broken. Mike answers the phone, a little breathless, and tells him Nancy's not home, that she went out with Jonathan and she's gonna be late for curfew if she doesn't get her butt home _right away_ , and he hears Mrs. Wheeler get onto Mike for saying butt to someone on the phone, _it's not polite, I don't_ care _if it's just Steve!_ He'll just call her again tomorrow, he guesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi pals!
> 
> I'm not exactly the _most_ happy with Steve's POV, but I do kind of like it. It's a little all over the place, but so is Steve's head (in my mind at least). I hope y'all had a decent time and I'm planning on getting another chapter up either tomorrow or Monday!
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Shit:**
> 
>   * The long, long list of songs mentioned in this chapter: _Let's Hear It for the Boy_ , by Deniece Williams, which is from the _Footloose_ soundtrack but is also _very_ fun to sing to your dude-partners, especially if they hate the song and where the chapter title came from; _You Can't Hurry Love_ , by Phil Collins, a very fun cover; _When Doves Cry_ , by Prince; by Queen; and _Old Flames (Can't Hold a Candle to You)_ , by Dolly Parton, which is THE MOST Steve-@-Billy song in the world for this fic tbh. 
>   * If you don't know what a "dad noise" is, _p l e a s e_ go watch [ this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dCDbHjpuuY), which is a very very good scene from my favorite tv show of all time, _Letterkenny_ ; it's such a good show and everyone should watch it!! It's on Hulu and it's basically "Canadian live-action _King of the Hill_ , but sex-positive and with very little toxic masculinity." If you're not up on your hockey/Canadian slang, have urban dictionary nearby and keep the captions on.
>   * Outtakes/things I'm not gonna write out fully but are so funny to me to think about: (1) El waking Hopper up in the dead of the night like GO FIND MY NEW BROTHER NOW YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED HOME UNTIL YOU GET HIM. (2) Hopper having to reckon with the fact that Steve and Billy are flirting (he guesses???) and now he's gotta be all verbally supportive of The Gay Youths (tm)
>   * Also, writing "stupid, not dumb" Steve is so much fun, I just love him _so much_.
> 

> 
> **In the next chapter, I swear, I promise: Kali comes to visit; dress shopping (complete with eighties montage); Thanksgiving, blended.**


	5. there's always something happening (and it's usually quite loud)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Billy roasts a turkey, Max and El do a probably uncharacteristically large amount of shrieking, and Kali comes to visit. Ahh, who_ doesn't _love Thanksgiving?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** There is some more discussion of the AIDS crisis, in a way that's much more directly personal than previous mentions; a secondary character mentions a loved one/significant other who died. 
> 
> Other than that, here's 13.5K of fun!

When Billy gets home, Hopper’s waiting outside, smoking a Camel in the designated smoking clearing, bags under his eyes smudged dark. 

“Oh, yeah, kid, there’s a surprise for you inside. Steve helped with it, but it’s a good thing, I promise.” Hop needs to get more sleep, and so does Billy. 

El’s up, when he gets in, sitting on the couch. She doesn’t look tired at all, which is so so unfair. She smiles at him, points up at the loft. It’s dark, up there, but when he gets most of the way up the ladder, he sees a lamp he can turn on. 

He’s shocked, when he sees it. It looks like a real bedroom, as much as something like this can. His shit’s all organized, his _record player_ ’s already set up and ready to use, his bed is made--it looks like _his space_ , more than any place he’s ever lived with Neil has. Someone’s put up a few albums on the wall-eaves, careful not to fuck up the record or get the sleeve caught in the thumbtacks. 

Someone _cared_ about making this space look like his, feel like his. 

“Hey, El, was this you?” he asks, poking his head down to look at her. She shakes her head no, and Hopper comes in then. 

“Nah, son, I told you,” he says, all exasperated, “Steve did all that. I helped him get the mattress and boxspring up there, an’ he did everything else. El, are you gonna make breakfast now or can I sleep for, like, nine more hours?”

“I’ll wake you at oh-nine-fifteen,” she says primly, “so that Billy has time to eat and do his hair before he takes me and Max to the mall.” Shit, that’s right. He promised to do that tomorrow--or, well, later today, he guesses. 

He slumps over onto his bed, and somehow it smells like Steve. It’s subtle, but Billy can’t help himself; he takes off his jacket and his jeans and curls up among his blankets, pressing in deep to get whatever molecules of Steve’s scent remains. He falls asleep, Steve’s eyes in the flame of the lighter and the fan of Steve’s shoulders, working to make this space Billy’s, haunting his dreams. 

 

It feels like El’s there, shaking him awake, about fifteen minutes later. 

“It’s shopping day,” she says, and there’s a little tone of excitement in her voice that he’s pretty sure no sane person could tell is there. He can tell, though, and he’s just--so proud of her. She’s doing a great job, learning how to be a real person. Hopefully, Max doesn’t set her back too far in her learning; Max can be a Neanderthal at the best of times, but maybe El’ll come home with a fun new volume: shriek. 

He crosses himself, touches his saint’s medal and sneds up a prayer to St. Jude that that won’t be what happens. He’s not religious, not exactly. His mom had taken him to St. Hilda’s, the Roman Catholic church down the block, until he’d been eleven, when she’d met Neil. He didn’t really believe in a God, watching over everybody and playing games like some kid with a set of army men, but he liked the smell of the church, liked the ritual of holy water and the sit-stand-kneel of the service. He’d gotten confirmed at twelve, mostly because Father Thomas had begged him to, had said _since Billy’d come this far, he could get confirmed at least._

Billy hadn’t cared much, one way or the other; he’d already known the church wouldn’t want him the way he was, but it’d be fun to see what the communion wafers tasted like. 

He’d picked St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes, and when Father Thomas had asked why, he said he was praying for his mom to leave Neil. Father Thomas had had this moue of disappointment, but he hadn’t argued. So he’d dressed up all nice, his mom had taken these embarrassing photos of him in his communion suit that she said made him look like an angel or some shit, and gotten to drink the wine and eat the wafer. 

The wafer tasted like nothing, but the wine wasn’t bad. It was a little sour, a little vinegar-y, and watered down, but he thought then that he might like wine, really. He hadn’t been back in a church since then, other than the once for his mom's funeral, and he only missed the stuffy air and incense perfume of the church every once in a while, when he wanted some peace. 

 

He thought about the church almost exclusively when Max was trying him. Sometimes, he got a flash of the worshipful heart he’d had kneeling to pray, but that was usually when he was kneeling to worship something else, something the Catholic God probably wouldn’t be too excited about. 

Shaking off the weird mood he’s accidentally put himself in, Billy climbs down, finds a stack of Eggos (of course) and some half-decent fried eggs.  
“Alright, kiddo, this are great,” he mumbles, mouth already full of eggo. “Did you tell Max we were gonna be there to get her around 10?” 

“I told her ten-three-zero,” she says gravely, “you need a shower. Your hair is--gross.” She’s not wrong, but he’s a little embarrassed that she’s noticed. 

“Alright, in that case I’m gonna go get in the shower. And don’t disrespect the ‘do, do you know how many girls would pay to get their hands in this mane?” He ruffles her hair in a very gentle noogie and shuffles off toward the shower. He feels--tender, maybe that’s the right word. Like he’s a snake that’s just shed its skin and every little touch is sensitive, almost hurts, like when he used to spend the whole day on the Santa Monica Pier and come home with not quite a sunburn. He turns the shower a little hotter than usual, trying to get his head out of the clouds. 

He comes out, steamed pink like a lobster or something, and when he goes up to the loft to get dressed, he finds the _ugly_ sweater Steve was wearing last night under his coat. It’s red-and-white knit, incredibly soft, and when he looks at the tag on the inside, it says _100% cashmere_. It smells like Steve. Did he leave it here on purpose? It’s kind of squished up, though, so he probably didn’t, probably took it off when he got hot and forgot it. 

“You have ten minutes to do your hair,” El says from downstairs, “and I’m making you tea.” She’s gotten really into tea somehow, which Hopper doesn’t seem to understand but just kind of shrugs off as he slurps his superstrong black coffee.. Billy’s not a big coffee guy; it usually just makes him twitchy and irritable. He likes the tea El makes though, strong and hot and with so much sugar in it that Billy’s started going for an extra run every few days, just to burn off the extra calories.

He doesn’t think real hard about it, just pulls the sweater over his head and goes downstairs to monopolize the bathroom. When he opens the bathroom door, exactly 9 minutes and thirty seconds later, Hopper’s standing right there. 

“Is that--you know what? Nope. It’s too early.” Hopper says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Billy blushes, _hard_ ; he doesn’t usually blush, but something about Steve just--rubs him the wrong way. _Or is it the right way,_ his traitor brain suggests as he annoys El into putting on her big coat. It’s cold out, cold enough that he’s really glad to have on an extra layer under his leather jacket. 

He gets why Steve wears these sweaters; they’re so warm, and they’re stupid soft. It’s too bad this one’s so, _so_ ugly, a pattern of white snowflakes and dots that are probably supposed to be smaller snowflakes knit into the red sweater. He wonders, idly, if they make black ones, or grey or some color he could actually fucking _wear_.

El takes out the Black Flag tape that’s still in the cassette player, and they drive in relative silence while she looks at his other tapes. 

 

“Joan...Jett?” she says, after a minute, and sure, he could use some mean, hot punk rock girl singing to him this morning. He’s still feeling a little bit cracked open. He nods, and she puts in the tape. 

El likes _Bad Reputation_ , and she _loves Cherry Bomb_ ; she’s still kind of singing “ _I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!_ ” to herself when they pull up to pick up Max. She piles in the backseat, already almost yelling about some dumb show she watched this morning on the Saturday morning cartoon block. El gets this sour look on her face, like, _woah, it’s very early for yelling,_ and Max takes it down approximately seven decibels. She gives Billy a once-over, and when she sees the ugly, _ugly_ sweater he’s wearing, she stops in the middle of her sentence about how Lucas hasn’t asked her to the dance yet to raise her eyebrows at him, all surprised.

“Is that STEVE’S SWEATER?” she yells as he starts off toward the mall, and _jesus_ he forgets how fucking _loud_ she can be. 

“Mad Max, please take a chill pill or six, oh my god, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he groans, and that was obviously the wrong thing to say, because she hollers even louder. 

“Please. Stop.” El says, a little dangerous, and Max stops like _that_. Billy wishes he could do that, honestly. 

“I wasn’t even doing anything fun, Max, I was tryin’ to sleep in my car after I caught Wheeler and Byers neckin’, which was a truly traumatic experience.” El looks really concerned for a minute, and whispers to herself “ _Necking?_ ”

“It means making out, getting busy, whatever,” Max says to El, her voice finally at a normal register for once. “And _why_ exactly were you sleeping in your car?”

“Me an’ Steve had a fight. _Not a physical one_ ,” he replies, before she can get all worked up again, “We argued. And I threw a hissy fit and tried to run off.” Max gives him this look like _who, you, throw a hissy fit? No way!_ and he rolls his eyes at her in the rearview mirror. 

“So did you actually apologize?” Max says, and before he can turn the car around and take them back home, no more shopping today, El clears her throat a little, turns around to the backseat. 

“No, but he tried. And Steve was being an...dipshit.” El goes, all prim and proper, and Max laughs, high fives her. El stays turned around, talking to Max about what music there’s gonna be at the dance and what kind of dress she should buy and all this other cute, preteen shit. 

_Dirty Deeds_ ends, rolls over into _Crimson and Clover_ , and Billy can’t stop thinking about Steve. Joan Jett’s singing about some girl, _I don’t hardly know her, but I think I could love her,_ and Billy thinks back to what Steve said last night, about Billy not knowing anything about him. He thinks he does; he thinks he should, given what they’ve all been through together, even if he’s only been tangentially involved in any of it. 

He knows now, Max has told him about what the brat pack was doing when he came over, about how stressed Steve was trying to keep them all home and safe while they were trying to go out and get themselves killed. He feels worse than he did before he knew that; Steve’d really just been trying to keep Max and all the other nose-pickers safe, and Billy’d knocked his lights out. 

_Yeah, I’m not such a sweet thing, I wanna do ev-er-y-thing,_ Joan Jett sighs, all wistful and shit, and Billy knows how that feels, fuck. He hums along, can’t stop thinking now about all the everything he could do with Steve. He wants to pin Steve to the counter of Hopper’s house, get real close and whisper gay shit in his ear about how nice Steve is, what a good person Steve is, how he deserves to be taken care of and how Billy’ll be sweet to him if Steve’ll just _let him_.

He drives most of the way to the mall on autopilot, and Max and El are both so hopped up on the idea of shopping that they shriek in unison so loud he can’t hear the last few seconds of _I Hate Myself for Loving You_ when they pull into the parking lot. He’s tempted to park and make them listen to the whole song again, but _holy shit_ they are so loud. He might go deaf from their excitement and rage if he tried that. 

So they’re all wandering around the mall, and they’ve actually got this awesome little store that sells real band merch, and he gets this killer Yes baseball shirt that makes his arms look, if he says so himself, incredible. The first place they go, Merry Go Round, has a few formal dresses, but when Max comes out in some sequined mess that’s a little too short on her (which, _who are these things made for?_ Max is, like, five foot nothing.) he ushers them back in the dressing room to change into their normal clothes and pushes them out of the store real quick. The cute girl who works there, apparently, seems a little pissed, but he’s not really that concerned about it. 

They try the Limited next, but it’s all a little...boring. It’s harder than Billy would’ve thought, finding stores that sell things that Max and El both like and can fit into.

“I’m not wearing something that pink and floofy,” Max says disdainfully, wrinkling her nose at the mannequin in the window. El laughs at her, laughs even harder when Billy takes her in his arms and starts doing this _horrible_ approximation of a waltz. 

They end up going into JC Penney, just because they’re on that side of the mall, and weirdly there’s a lot more stuff Max and El seem to like in the juniors department. He should’ve brought a book or something, he thinks to himself wistfully; the girls each have about sixteen dresses in their arms as they go into the fitting room, so it’s gonna be a long wait here. They should have magazines like at the doctor’s. It wouldn’t even have to be _Thrasher_ or anything; by the time he hears El and Max yelling at each other about how cute they look for the sixth time, not asking for his opinion at all, he’d even read a _Newsweek_ , for god’s sake. 

Finally, he gets bored of listening to them shriek and pokes his head far enough into the fitting room hallway to say, “I wanna see these hideous things, c’mon and show me what you’ve got so far,” his eyes firmly shut to avoid any accidental sightings of--well, _anything_ really.

“Okay, okay, GIVE US A SECOND,” Max hollers, deafening the poor salesgirl who’s organizing the return rack. 

“Sorry about that, my sister’s a fuckin’ loudmouth,” he says, laying on the charm; maybe she’ll help him hurry them along or something.

“Oh--no, you’re totally fine, I’ve heard way worse. They’re shopping for winter formal?” she asks, looking interested in that weird, un-interested way that salespeople do sometimes. She stops messing with the dresses on the rack, give him a slow once-over, comes over to talk to him where he’s sitting on the bench they have outside the dressing room for the exact purpose of giving bored dudes a place to sit. 

“Yeah,” he says, “We’ve been all over the damn mall. They can’t find anything, uh, what did Max say, ‘sophisticated but fun,’ so I’m probably gonna die of hunger before they get it figured out.”

“You’re a good big brother,” she says, real coy and flirty. “I don’t think my big brother woulda done the same for me.” She’s cute, Billy guesses, hair permed real big and lips sticky with bright pink lipstick. She’s wearing this getup that’s kinda weird, but not bad, this pink overall-dress-skirt thing with a yellow oversized t-shirt underneath. Her earrings seem like they’d be annoying to wear, these giant yellow hoops that match her shirt exactly and are, at present, tangled in her curly hair. 

“Well, I owe her, I owe both of ‘em, really. I was kinda a bad role model for a while, wasn’t really nice to either of ‘em.” He’s flirting back, halfheartedly; the ego boost is nice, but he can’t make himself excited about it. It’s how he always feels, flirting with girls. He’s made out with plenty of them, and it’s nice enough, usually. His ladykiller reputation precedes him, usually, and girls want to say they’ve bagged a guy who’s got a reputation like his is--or, was. He’s been keeping to himself more, tired of pretending to be this big man on campus when he’s really just over everybody in Hawkins’ bullshit drama. 

“Well, I think that’s real admirable,” she drawls, fluttering her eyelashes. Wow, she’s wearing a lot of, uh, mascara? Her eyelashes look like little spider legs. Creepy. “So what’s your name, big brother?”

“Uh, Billy,” he says, really hoping he doesn’t have to pull the girls out of their dresses and get the hell out before she starts feelin’ him up right here, next to some taffeta monstrosities. 

“Hi, Uh Billy,” she teases, “I’m Samantha, but my friends call me Sammy.” 

Just then, Max lunges out of the dressing room like some kinda wild animal, wearing this skintight, floor-length shiny teal thing that’s _truly_ a nightmare. El follows behind her, walking like a normal human being, in a less-horrible peach-toned ballgown thing that goes down to her knees. It kinda looks like the Easter dresses Susan makes Max wear every Easter for photos, and it makes her look like she hasn’t seen the sun like ever in her whole life, but it’s nice enough, he guesses. 

“That ain’t your color,” he says to Max, and “It’s alright I guess?” to El. 

Neither of them look super happy with their dresses; Max keeps doing this weird pinch-and-wiggle to keep her dress from hiking up, and El looks like all the material is swallowing her a little bit. 

“I told El she needs something more grown up, that looks like my Easter dress from last year, and it’s too pale for the winter,” Max goes, like she’s some fashion expert. 

“Well, yours looks...tacky,” El says, being really careful with the new word Billy’d accidentally taught her in Merry-Go-Round. The both look at each other really meaningfully, and now he’s worried about having to break up a catfight and drive home two angry teenage girls, one of whom could probably raze this JC Penney to the ground. 

“Why don’t you girls go try on something else?” Sammy suggests sweetly, “I bet you’d look _great_ in a darker color,” she points to El with her long french-tipped nail, “and why don’t you try something that’s a little heavier fabric; satin’s not great for winter, it’s just so thin.”

The both retreat to their respective dressing rooms, and Billy’ll flirt with this girl _all day long_ if it means El and Max stay focused on their own dresses and keep civil with each other. He’s asking if she’s in school (she is, she goes to cosmetology school at night, she gets a _great_ deal on hair stuff at the beauty supply store) and trying not to wince every time she pops her wad of bubblegum when the girls come back out again. 

Max is wearing this black one-shouldered thing; it’s got all these weird poufs and gathers and stuff. It makes her look like a little Goth, he thinks, and has to cover his mouth to hide his smile. El has on this strappy red thing; it’s actually not that bad either, except the red makes her look a little sick. 

“Oh, sweetie, what’s your name?” she says to El, and when El answers she goes, “Okay, Elle, you’re a winter. You’ll look so much more beautiful in something cool-toned, a blue or a mint green or something, you’ve got such nice skin and such pretty hair that one of those colors’ll make everything just _pop_!” Max has this grouchy look on her face, like the dress she’s got on isn’t one she really likes. 

“And you, honey--Max, right?--you’re a summer, you should look at greens or something that’s got a little bit more color. I think your brother was right about something darker, but black just washes you out since your skin’s so pale! Plus, you’ve got great legs, so something that shows them off’ll probably make you feel a lot more comfortable.”

Sammy’s asking about what kinda music he likes (hard rock, the Stones and Motley Crue and Black Flag) the next time the girls come out, and her face changes from this mask of thinly-veiled interest to full-blown excitement when she sees the girls over his shoulder. 

Max and El both have these huge smiles on their faces, but Billy’s sure he looks like he could kill somebody. Max has on this really pretty green dress, strappy and sleek until it flips out a little; it’s _frighteningly_ short, though, barely reaches mid-thigh, and her smile drops into a stormy look at the look on his face. 

“What, Billy? You don’t like it?” she says, real calm but clearly threatening him.

“You look great, Mad Max, but..it’s just so short.” he replies, and winces at the threat of violence that’s clear on her face; she looks like she did right before she almost neutered him with the nail bat. 

“Are you SHAMING my BODY?” Max hollers, and he needs an aspirin. He’s going to die before they get this day done, if she’s gonna act like this. 

“No, Max, I get it, it’s your body, you get to do what you want with it, but there’s no way Neil’s gonna let you out of the house wearing that dress, and you know it.” She’s still frowning exaggeratedly, but she knows he has a point, so she drops it. 

El’s wearing this nice little blue dress, sequins sewn all over the top and sleeves and a big bouncy skirt.

“I like this one fine,” she says, kind of excited (or at least, he thinks so; she still sounds pretty monotone).

“It’s nice,” Sammy goes, “But you should try on everything; give yourself some options to pick from.” El nods, looks a little downtrodden that Sammy’s not as excited as she is about it, but as they’re going back into the dressing room, Sammy says “Make sure you keep that one separate, though, it’s a really good option!” El’s shoulders lift, and he could kiss this girl for making this probably the least painful shopping excursion he’s ever been on. 

They try a few more options on, some that are too big and some that are just awful and a few for both of the girls that could definitely work.

“Ooh,” he hears Max squeal from the dressing room, and El says “I like this one” at almost the same time. He gives Sammy a look like, _huh, maybe they’ve both got a good one this time?_ She shrugs back like _who knows_ and they’re both watching when the girls come out. 

They both look _awesome_. El’s wearing this sweet blue dress with fun little puffed sleeves and little hearts printed on it in pink. Max’s dress is long-sleeved wool (he thinks), with these cool strands of multicolored yarn running across it. It's a little shorter than he’s maybe comfortable with his kid sister wearing but still within the boundaries of what she’ll be able to wear out of the house; she kinda looks like those high-exposure photos of city streets, the yellow of a taxi speeding by amid the black of a city night or some other poetic shit. 

“Oh my GOD,” Sammy shrieks, “they’re _perfect_!” She and the girls huddle up, _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing about the dresses. Billy’s just glad they’re all excited, thank god this shopping trip’s almost over. He’s smelled more aggressively strong floral-fruity perfume today than he’s ever smelled at once; maybe it causes brain damage or something, because he can’t help but smile at El and Max all soft and gooey-eyed, so excited about their dresses. 

He winces, when Sammy rings them up, at the price, but they’re his girls, so he’s not too upset about dropping such a chunk of change. (Plus, Hopper’d slipped a crisp fifty into his hand this morning when they left, so it doesn’t hurt his savings quite so bad.) Sammy takes her awful feather-topped pen and scribbles something at the bottom of the receipt, winks as she wishes them a good day and goes to help some other girl and her mom who’re fighting real loud about what dresses are appropriate for school dances. 

Max grabs the receipt from him as they walk away, and shows more tact than she’s maybe ever showed in her whole life when she says “Who spells Sammi _with an i_?” to them at a normal speaking volume instead of her usual yell. 

The girls want to look at the shoes, too, before they go, and so they go upstairs to look at the shoes. It’s funny, he thinks to himself as the girls orient themselves on the map next to he escalator, that Max is this into shopping. Usually, Susan has to threaten to take her board away or ground her before she’ll put on her Easter dress, or at least that’s been true for the last two Easters. 

Maybe she’s changing, trying something new now that she’s not shoehorned into being a tomboy by everybody from her old school; maybe she’s just trying to fit in with El, who’s so excited to do _anything_ normal kids do that she almost had _Billy_ excited to go dress shopping; maybe she’s trying to fit in with the rest of the kids at Hawkins. He hopes it’s not the last one. Max is pretty cool, if he can say something like that about his lame kid sister, and he hopes she doesn’t give up the things that make her cool just because she thinks she should or whatever. 

“Max, you’re not going soft on me, trying to fit in, are ya?” he says, trying for sarcasm and failing a little bit. “You gonna start listening to Hall an’ Oates next?”

“ _EW,_ ” she screams, and he puts his hand over her mouth by reflex. He kinda hits her with the bags he’s holding, though, and she yelps real dramatic, loud enough that the saleslady who’s folding sweaters gives them the hairy eyeball. He lets Max go, afraid the sales woman’s gonna call the cops and say he’s kidnapping them or some shit, and she gives him a hideous leer of annoyance. 

“No, Billy,” she says, all prim and proper like she didn’t just _lick_ his fucking _hand_ , “I’m allowed to enjoy whatever I want to, don’t you remember what _feminism_ is?”

“Yeah, okay, kid,” he replies, rolling his eyes. They’re in the men’s section, now; he’s pretty sure they went the wrong direction around the store, although since the store’s set up like a circle they’ll probably get there eventually. He sees a shelf of sweaters in nice, neutral colors, can’t help but reach out and pet them, just to see if they’re as soft as his--well, Steve’s--is. 

They are, but when he looks at the price tag out of curiosity, he drops it back on the stack like it’s going to burn him or something. _Eighty-six dollars?_ For _one sweater?_ Jesus, it doesn’t matter how ugly this thing is, he’s never gonna be able to give it back to Steve; he’s never gonna have eighty-six _fucking_ dollars to drop on one _fuckin'_ sweater. He’s pretty sure his leather jacket had only cost about a hundred, and he’d saved up for two years to buy it. 

The girls’ve run ahead to the shoes, and when he gets there he has to force Max not to buy four-inch stilettos. El’s picked out a much more reasonable pair of flats, nice and simple. Finally, he agrees to buy Max a pair of flats absolutely _covered_ with black sequins, partly because the way they flash blue and green when she dances around like an idiot is actually really cool and partly because she’s distracted enough by them she isn’t complaining about not getting heels. 

They eat at the food court because if he doesn’t get something to eat soon he’s _literally_ going to die of exhaustion, _thank you, Max_. She insists that they get frozen yogurt after their very healthy, no-vegetables-at-all meal of orange chicken and white rice, which El’s real stoked about, especially once she realizes you can get a waffle with your froyo. 

He’s destroying a cup of chocolate with oreo bits and rainbow sprinkles--excuse him, _jimmies_ , which is the worst possible name for a food of all time, considering that out on the West Coast they call condoms jimmy hats sometimes--when he thinks he sees Steve’s ridiculous mop of hair form across the giant food court. Billy stands up, trying to get a better look, but he can’t see Steve or anyone with hair like his. He must be imagining things. He shakes his head like a dog to clear it, gets his hair stuck in his frozen yogurt, and is immediately less jazzed about froyo as a concept. 

The girls compare accessories and shoes and dresses, yell about Billy’s _new crush, Sammi,_ and generally bother him until about ten minutes into the car ride when they pass out. He glances in the rearview mirror at the two of them, asleep in the backseat, and smiles at his own reflection. God, he’s such a sap. He’s glad the girls are getting along; El needs somebody to teach her how the real world works who knows what girls can be like, and he’s glad Max has a girl to complain to about her period. Maybe he won’t have to hear all the gory details now, he hopes. 

Now that he’s gotten some sleep, thought about something other than Steve for like half a second, he’s created a new plan: aggressive flirting. It had worked on Suzette, the girl in his math class who thinks he’s cheating off her; she used to look at him like he was so much dirt on the bottom of her shoe, but now that he’s been ridiculously, overdramatically flirting with her she’s gotten a lot more chill. 

They talk about shit, even, compare notes about radians when the teacher gets too confusing, complain about how stupid Gatsby is for pining about Daisy, who sounds pretty fuckin’ stupid from where they’re sitting, since they have the same English teacher. She’s pretty smart, honestly, and she doesn’t lose her mind about how cool he is or how much she wants him to kiss her. He’s actually pretty sure she doesn’t want him to try to kiss her _at all_ , which is kinda nice, considering how many girls in the school get annoyed when he tries to talk about anything other than what parties he’s going to that weekend (none) or how they look in their new outfits (they all look nice, he guesses). 

So, he’s thinking about how he can flirt obnoxiously with Steve, try to get back in his good graces that way, and all of a sudden he hears El’s breathing change, get real fast and short and tense. Is she having a night terror or something? Should he wake her up? Just as he’s reaching back to tap her on the knee, she comes awake, still breathing fast. Her breathing slows, deepens, though, and so he’s not super worried. She looks at his reflection in the rearview mirror, and it seems like it takes her a second to realize who he is, where she is. 

“You okay?” he whispers, quiet enough not to wake Max. 

“Yeah,” she mutters back, voice a little huskier than normal, “I was talking to Kali in the blank space, inviting her to our Thanksgiving, and she saw Papa behind me, reaching for me.”

“Well, that sounds scary,” he says on autopilot, soothing her just like he’s soothed Max after nightmares.

“Wait--you invited _Kali_ to Thanksgiving?” he whisper-shouts when he processes what she’s actually said. “Why? Did you ask Hopper if you could?”

“Hopper doesn’t know.” she says firmly, and, after he glares at her for a second, she adds “ _Yet._ He likes her. He doesn’t understand her, really. But he does like her. And he’s glad somebody took care of me. When I left. So he owes her.” From what he’s heard Hopper say about Kali, very little of which was even remotely positive, he’s not sure that’s true, but she’s already done it, so what’s he gonna do about it?

“She’s bringing Axel,” she adds, as if that’s a good thing. She’s told him a little bit about what happened in Pittsburgh, and he’s pretty sure Axel’s not good news either, but oh well. He’ll just tell Hopper when they get home, make sure he’s fully prepared for two mostly-homeless punks to show up on his doorstep this coming Thursday. 

 

They’d talked about Thanksgiving last week. Hopper used to work every Thanksgiving, apparently, but last year he’d spent the day with El, fucking up roasting the turkey and eating canned cranberry sauce and watching the big game or whatever. 

“You wanna go spend it with your--with Max?” Hopper’d asked, when it came up. Billy would rather swallow nails, if he’s being honest, but he knows how tense holidays get at the house. 

“I wanna see Max, but it’d probably be better if I picked her up after their dinner and let her hang out at the cabin for a while,” he’s said back, too taken aback by Hopper asking to be anything less than honest. 

“Last year, all of the kids in the Party” (Hopper’s face, sour with dislike about the name, was incredible) "got together at my old place, it’s just empty right now, I keep it for appearances. But since it’s nobody’s kitchen all the time, it was easier to have a little potluck thing, all the kids brought leftovers from their family dinners and Joyce and I managed not to overcook that turkey. Steve brought this bread salad thing his mom likes to make, which we all ate to be polite, and this killer baked mac-and-cheese I had to guard so the kids didn’t fight over it.

“We’ll probably do that again, if you wanna come. The kids’ll invite Max, and last year it was actually pretty fun.” Hopper had tried to make his voice casual, all _if you don’t come it won’t hurt our feelings_ , but Billy was getting better at reading his face. 

“I guess,” he’d drawled, “as long as I can make good cranberry sauce. Do you guys eat that horrible white bread stuffing? I can’t _stand_ slimy bread.” Hopper’s face had broken into this big smile, and he’d turned away to try to hide it.

“What else do you make stuffing with? White-bread stuffing’s an institution!” he’d insisted, and when Billy’d explained the cornbread stuffing his mom had always made, Hopper had made this real grossed-out face and told Billy he’d have to make his own stuffing _if he wanted it made with cornbread like some heathen_. 

“Oh, yeah, and I told everybody we’d bring the turkey already cooked. Are you any good at turkey?” Hopper’d hollered up to Billy, who was climbing up into the loft and had nearly fallen off the ladder in surprise.

“No!”

“Well, you’d better find a good recipe, I’m not gonna hold myself liable for anything but a sad, dry bird.” 

Billy’d rolled his eyes, but the next morning at school he’d gone to the library and found a pretty good-lookin’ recipe for turkey and one for cornbread stuffing.

 

By the time they get back to Max’s house she’s awake, and now that she’s refreshed she’s started hollering again. 

“Billy, I CAN’T BELIEVE I have to eat Thanksgiving dinner with Neil and my mom alone, it’s gonna be a LIVING NIGHTMARE, you TRAITOR.” He shushes her, points to the open kitchen window. 

“I know, kid, but if you make nice with them, I’ll pick you up as soon as your dinner is done and you call me, and you can come to the big Thanksgiving party or whatever,” he said, at normal human being volume, and she stomped her way out of the car and down the sidewalk to the house, pouting. 

“See you Monday morning for school, squirt!” he yells out the window, real fake-smiley, and he sees the kitchen curtain move as Susan peeks out at him. He waves at her, all nice, and pulls back out. The less time he has to spend interacting with her (or, God forbid, Neil) the better, in is opinion, even if he does feel a little guilty for throwing Max to the wolves at their kitchen table. 

When he and El get back to the cabin, Hopper’s already home, nuking the remains of the taco casserole Florence had sent home a few days ago. El shows off her new dress and everything, and Hopper has to wipe his eyes real fast while she’s spinning around, showing him how the dress moves or whatever. Billy almost wants to tease him about how soft he is, but he remembers the teeny little sweaters under Hopper’s bed and thinks better of it. 

“‘Zat Harrington’s sweater?” Hopper asks, real casual, and Billy just--takes the damn thing off. He’s tired of everybody asking about it, like it’s some big meaningful thing or some shit. Steve’d left his sweater here last night, and Billy’d borrowed it because it was cold outside and the sweater was warm, and that was it. 

“The kid invited Kali to Thanksgiving,” Billy calls all casual from where he’s putting his new shirt away in the loft. 

“You did what?” Hopper growls at El, and they have a very civil not-fight about how she needs to ask permission before she just invites people to their _secret house_ where they’re living so they can hide her from _the people who want to kill her_ and how she needs to have her sister around, because _it’s so hard when no one understands what she’s going through_. She slams the door to her bedroom when she walks away from Hopper, and the chair that she’d lifted up only breaks one leg when it falls to the ground. Hopper doesn’t say Kali and Axel can’t come, though, only that he needs to go exchange the turkey for a bigger one if they’re coming too. 

Billy waits to fix the chair until she’s done throwing her little tantrum (not that he’d call it that to her face, he actually does kinda want to continue living), so she can help him do it. It’s just another day in their weird fuckin’ lives. Sometimes he thinks they should make a movie or something about what it’s like, living in this house, and he laughs to himself as he washes the dinner dishes.

 

On Monday at school, he eats lunch with Suzette. Her friends aren’t exactly jazzed about it, but she rolls her eyes when one of them--Mary, he thinks--leans over all dramatic to whisper loud in her ear about _what a bad guy he is, and how she should think about who her real friends are_. 

Suzette just ignores her and asks what his plans are for Thanksgiving, and when he kinda mumbles about his family, she takes the reins and starts complaining about how right after school tomorrow she has to be trapped in the car with her parents and her snot-nosed little brother for _eight hours_ while they drive to Missouri or wherever else her Aunt Janice lives, and she can’t even call anybody because her aunt only has the one phone line and doesn’t like _ungrateful teenagers tying up the phone line, what if the president calls,_ like the president would ever call her. 

He’s laughing at her awesome impression of her grumpy old aunt when he makes eye contact with Steve. It’s less than a second, probably, but he _burns_ with, well, something. He purposefully looks back at Suzette, asks if she’s going to the party after the Snowball dance. The rest of the girls at the table are happy to gossip about who’s bringing alcohol and how Tony Platz is gonna be there even though he went off to college this year, and he tunes out their chatter while he thinks. 

He’s going to have to man up one day enough to actually apologize, he knows that. And he really does _want_ to apologize, it’s just--hard, letting Steve see the broken places in him, letting Steve break him open like he always does. He’s gotten better at apologizing, he thinks. He’d apologized to Wheeler on Friday, when he’d picked the dweeb up at the arcade with Max and brought him back to the cabin for dinner. 

 

“Kid, you know why I’m here to pick you up?” He’d turned down the radio, _Cum On Feel the Noize_ providing a backdrop so the silence wasn’t so overpowering. 

“Because you’re trying to get El to think you’re a better person than you are?” Mike had said, real snotty. God, he was _just like_ his sister. 

“No, because I wanted to say sorry, didn’t Henderson tell you that?” The kid had looked taken aback, like he hadn’t believed Billy would ever let the word _sorry_ come out of his mouth. 

“For what?” Mike’d asked cautiously, just ignoring his question altogether. God, why did all these kids think he was so dangerous? Because you are, to them, or you were at least, his brain had replied. 

“For what I did to Steve, and for scaring you guys. What I did wasn’t right, and I let fear and anger make me meaner than I really am.” He was getting better, at talking about what he’d done at least. El had told him some of what she’d done, the night they closed the gate or whatever, and she’d been a big enough person to own it, to own how she felt about it, and he was gonna try to do the same. He hadn’t killed Steve, after all, just kicked his ass. Thank God Max’d thought fast; he needed to thank her for that, probably. 

“Okay.” Mike had said, real sullen. They’d driven in silence for a while; Wheeler kept taking these big breaths like he was gonna make some big fuckin’ point, but he mostly just looked like when you take a fish out of the ocean and it’s trying real hard to breathe. He wasn’t supposed to laugh at people he was apologizing to, probably, and so he’d turned his head away to laugh a little to himself. 

“Are you gonna do it again?” Wheeler’d said, finally, like a challenge. What the hell kinda question was that? _Of course_ he wasn’t, and now that he knew what had been going on, Max could tell him when the little freaks were doing something Upside Down-related, not that they were doing that now that the gate was shut. 

“No,” Billy’d said back, trying to pick his words real careful. If Wheeler was anything like his bitch sister, he’d remember every single word Billy said to him, and he’d use it against Billy the second he got the chance. 

“I didn’t come over intending to fight Steve, and I was worried about Max. Now that I know what was happening, I get why he was so protective, and I respect him for doing what he did. Hopper’s already promised to tell me if something weird like that happens again, and Max has too, so I’ll be able to know what she’s doing and that she’s as safe as she can be while she does it. I’ll even help next time, if you guys’d let me.”

“Well, there won’t _be_ a next time,” Wheeler bluffed back, all confident. “The gate’s closed, everything’s over.”

After another long pause, he’d taken one of those big breaths again, but this time he said what he was thinking: “But just in case, it’d probably be a good idea to have a barbarian in the party, as long as everyone’s okay with it.”

Billy’d nodded back with a thoughtful frown, not super excited about being called a barbarian. He’d take what he could get, though, and El was gonna be so happy he and Mike weren’t mortal enemies or some shit anymore. 

“Wheeler,” he’d asked as they drove down the dirt road towards the cabin, “Do you think Lucas’ll listen, if I say sorry to him I mean?”

“Who knows, with Lucas,” Mike had replied, thoughtful look on his face, “I thought he’d never forgive me after El, uh, threw him, and lied or whatever, but he was there when we needed him. 

“So don’t expect him to forgive you right away,” he’d said, like he knew what he was trying to say now, “because he won’t. So you’ll have to say your thing, then leave him alone. If he forgives you, you’ll know.” 

 

Tuesday after school, he goes back to the grocery store, for about the eleventh time in three days; El had wanted to make cookies last night, and now he doesn’t have enough butter for everything for Thursday. 

He picks up an extra box of Eggos, figuring that since El’s probably gonna insist on making everyone breakfast on Friday morning he’d better stock up. Hopper’s been giving him money, not like an allowance exactly but money for the gas he spends driving Max and Mike around and the food he picks up at the store and shit. He’s gonna start working at the shop the Monday after Thanksgiving, but between then and now he’s barely got anything left of his savings after the girls’ shopping spree. 

He sees Steve’s Beemer parked outside, but he doesn’t see Steve until he’s reaching for the last two pounds of butter they’ve got in the case. He really only needs one, but better safe than sorry, right?

“Quit hogging all the butter,” he hears Steve grouse behind him. “I need some too, you’re not the only asshole in the world who’s leaving their shopping until the last minute.”

Billy doesn’t turn around, takes a second to bite back a snappy retort in the cool air of the dairy case. 

“King Steve,” he flirts when he does turn around, “what wonderful thing are you making for the potluck tomorrow? I’m sure it’s gonna be delicious, just like you.” He’s laying it on a little thick, maybe; Steve’s eyes get real wide, and he looks immediately uncomfortable. 

“Uh, pie. And mac-and-cheese, I’m gonna have to make a double batch this year. Dustin hasn’t shut up about it since last year, it’s good but like, Dustin’s losing his shit about it, he’s asked me at least once a day for the past two weeks if I’m bringing it again this year,” Steve babbles. He still looks a little uncomfortable, but maybe it’s just because he’s never seen this side of Billy. 

“Well, you’re welcome to share my butter then,” Billy says graciously, batting his eyelashes and holding out one of the packages of butter from his basket. When Steve reaches out, though, he pulls it a little closer, forcing Steve to step into his personal space to grab it. 

Steve stares at his hand, then looks him in the face for a quick second, the look in his eyes all _I’m not going to punch you, but I bet it would feel real good_. Baring his teeth, Steve lunges forward just enough to grab the butter, steps back so quickly Billy’s surprised by it. 

“Alright, asshole, I’m glad you’re acting like a fucking child but I’ve got shit to do. I guess they invited you to the potluck, too?” Steve snarls, turning away like he doesn’t care about the answer one way or the other. 

“Yeah, baby, I’ll be there with bells on,” he flirts back, but Steve doesn’t even break his stride, heading for the open cashier and rushing out the door like the place is on fire. 

Well, Billy thinks to himself as he tries to remember how much cornmeal they’ve still got at the house, at least they aren’t screaming at each other. 

 

Kali and Axel show up on Wednesday night, late. El’s about to go to bed, and even though she pouts at Hopper like she’s trying to win a contest for it, he makes her go to bed. His coffee mug shifts about six inches closer to the edge of the table, and he knocks it onto the ground as he’s standing up to greet their guests. 

“Who’re you?” Kali snarls all rude at Billy as Hopper’s mopping up coffee and crockery shards. Clearly they didn’t exactly teach the kids in the experiment manners at any point, Billy thinks. 

“I’m Billy. Hargrove. Hopper took me in after--well, after somethin’ bad happened. You’re Kali, and you’re Axel, right?” He’d figured Kali and Axel were gonna be pretty tough-looking, considering what El had said about their living quarters and the “work” they were doing, but he’s kinda surprised at how normal they’re clearly trying to look. Kali’s got a ton of piercings and a whole bunch of dark eyeliner on, but she’s wearing a plain burgundy t-shirt, and her jeans look relatively clean. The sides of Axel’s head are shaved, but he doesn’t have his mohawk standing at attention; his hair’s all flopped over to one side of his head, and he’s holding a button up shirt, on a hanger, kinda looking around for somewhere to put it. 

“I can hang that up upstairs, with my hanging clothes,” Billy offers while Kali’s sizing him up. Axel smiles a little awkwardly, but he hands Billy the hanger. 

“It’s the first time I’ve seen ya in person, Kali,” Hopper says, trying really hard to sound casual. “You look--nice.” 

“Yeah, well, Axel said people dress up for Thanksgiving or whatever.” She sighs, sounds like she doesn’t care, but the nervous look on her face is one Billy knows well, from the amount of times he’s met parents who clearly don’t approve of his long hair or the number of buttons undone on his shirt. 

“You’re probably gonna look a helluva lot nicer than Billy, anyway,” Hopper jokes, and Billy almost gets offended at the idea that he’s not gonna try to look good on Thanksgiving. He realizes, right before he opens his mouth to give Hopper shit about it, that Hopper’s trying to make Kali and Axel more comfortable. 

He climbs back down, and, at a loss for something normal to do, he goes to the fridge and grabs the six pack of beer chilling in the fridge. Hopper’s got a whole case of beer out in a (newly sanitized) cooler on the porch, where it’s cold enough now that it’s gonna stay plenty cold enough to drink for the foreseeable future, now that winter’s officially and definitely taken hold of Hawkins. 

He starts popping cans out of their plastic rings, passes one to Hopper and Kali. Axel shakes his head no, though, so the rest of the sixpack goes back in the fridge.

“Y’all follow hockey?” Hopper says desperately after they stand there lookin’ at each other for a few minutes. “There’s a Penguins game on tonight.”

“Oh, God, their season is in the _toilet_ this year,” Axel says gratefully, and he and Hopper go sit on the couch and find the game. Kali’s clearly not interested; she stalks around the room like some kind of predator, picking little chochkes and stuff up and putting them down. She peeks into Hopper’s room, but Billy shuts his door before Kali can, like, psychoanalyze the Chief or something weird. 

Without asking, she climbs up into his loft. She kicks off her shoes, lets them fall all the way to the ground, and Billy kicks them toward the tumble of shoes by the front door before he climbs up after her. 

“What are you tryin’ to find?” he asks her real quiet trying not to spook her. El said she does some creepy shit with visions, like Scarlet Witch or whatever, and he doesn’t wanna get confused and fall off the loft. His fingers are just about healed, and his ribs are too; he’d really rather not get any more broken bones.

“Just things. Information,” she says all tough, and he snickers.

“I’m an open book, sweetheart, whadda ya wanna know? _My weed’s hidden in the trunk of my car,_ ” he whispers, and she barks a surprised laugh. 

“Why you came here, why the Sheriff lets you stay here with him. You aren’t family,” she says, and it’s not a question. 

“Nah, and before you go creepin’ into my mind like El, my dad’s an asshole, did this--” he waggles his still-taped fingers, “and some other stuff. I don’t wanna talk about why.” 

“Okay,” she says, this look on her face like _you told me what I want to know, so I'll let you live for now_. Now that he’s closer to her, he can see the pink triangle sewn unobtrusively under the collar of her denim jacket. It’s too cold for just denim, he thinks, but he appreciates people who stick to their style even when it’s uncomfortable; he does the same shit, honestly. 

She sees his eyes on the little patch, and her eyes sharpen at him in response. His face must say something she understands though, because she doesn’t snap at him or anything, just turns to flip though his record collection. 

“I wouldn’t’ve pegged you for a Fleetwood Mac guy,” she says as she pulls out _Rumors_. “Did you hear they’re gonna come out with a new one, soon?”

“I wouldn’t’ve pegged you as a Fleetwood Mac gal,” he snarks back, “but no, I hadn’t heard that. My mom was a big Fleetwood Mac fan, and she, uh, I got all her records.” He’s not sure what to say, and it’s clear she isn’t either. 

“I like _Say You Love Me_ ,” she murmurs, “it was the first song I heard that wasn’t classical music.” He fits this into what little he knows of what life must’ve been like for her and El. 

“I can’t listen to _Landslide_ anymore,” he says back, trading her a little information, a little vulnerability. She’s clearly trying, and she seems so uncomfortable. She’s probably never had a family like this before, he thinks. 

“Oh, dude, you’ve got _Adolescents_?” She’s excited about it, and _hell yeah_. He can talk California punk for hours. 

They’re quietly arguing about whether the Cure are still cool, the Circle Jerks’ _Group Sex_ on low in the background, when the game ends. Axel and Hopper are arguing about whether the Blackhawks or the Penguins are having the worst season this year, but Hopper yawns hugely, jaw cracking, right in the middle of the point he’s making about how at least Bob Berry’s not running his team into the ground, unlike a certain coach whose name rhymes with _Schmorvile Messier_. 

“Alright, guys, that’s my cue. I’m goin’ ta bed. Don’t stay up too late, El’s gonna be up bright and early at eight and once she’s up, we’re all up.” Hop says through another yawn. He retreats into his bedroom, leaves the door cracked so they can use the bathroom if they need to. 

Axel comes up the ladder, and there’s not really space for three people up there, but they make do. Axel exclaims over his records and tapes just like Kali had, and he can tell by the way they exist, right in each other’s pockets, that they’re close. 

He’s glad they’ve got each other; it’s hard, living like they do on the edges of life, and having people to share the load with makes it a hell of a lot easier. That’s what he’d heard from the surfers and skateboarders he knew in Cali, who lived ten-to-a-two-bedroom and always had a couple bucks when somebody else was hungry or needed help with the rent. 

“So is Hopper good to you? Good to El?” Kali asks after a few minutes of conversation about Black Flag, when she thinks Hopper’s asleep. “He’s a cop, I don’t know if I trust--”

“Yeah, he really is,” Billy interrupts her, trying to keep her from the ACAB rant he’s heard from every gutterpunk he’s ever met. “He’s a cool cop. He caught me smokin’ weed a few weeks ago and didn’t even take it away, just told me to air out the car. I’m pretty sure he threatened my, uh, my old man into signing away his parental rights after everything happened.

“He really _tries_ with El. He’s been making me sit so he can practice braids on my hair, which I did not agree to willingly, so he can do them for El once her hair gets longer. He doesn’t treat her like she’s fucked up or anything, but he knows what she is, what she’s capable of, and he respects her for it. He’s a good dude. He didn’t have to take either of us in, and he did anyway.”

Once he starts talking about how good Hopper is, he realizes he’s not just bullshitting, not just telling them what they want to hear; Hopper really is a good dad or guardian or whatever. 

“You’ve got weed?” Axel asks, excitement seeping into his voice. 

“Yeah, but we’ll have to go smoke it in the fuckin’ _woods_ ,” he says long-sufferingly. “Wrap yourselves up in some blankets or something, it’s _fucking_ cold out tonight.”

He runs out to the car, grabs one of the pre-rolled joints he made the other day in preparation for the giant fuckin’ clusterfuck he’s sure Thanksgiving is gonna be. When he gets back, he wraps himself up in a blanket too, grabs the cologne from the milk crate he uses for a bedside table and a flashlight and leads them outside.  
Axel bitches about the cold, but Kali just watches him as he lights the joint. They pass it around, smoking probably faster than they would if they were inside or it were warmer out, and by the time they make their way back to the house, all smelling like his cologne, they’re pretty fuckin’ stoned. 

“Axel, don’t you think he’s pretty?” Kali whispers, a little too loud, once they’re safely back in the loft, all kind of puppy-piled together on his mattress. Billy can’t help but giggle a little, as quiet as he can, and Axel looks over at him real serious, like the answer to some big important question is somewhere in Billy’s face.

“Well, yeah, Kali. I’m surprised you do, though, you giant lesbian,” Axel giggles. He sobers up for a second, though, looks at Kali’s face like _I'm sorry, please don’t be mad at me_. 

“Don’t worry, Ax, he’s like us,” she says, and he feels himself blush, embarrassment and happiness squirming together in his stomach. It’s so weird, being around somebody else who’s gay again. All his friends were, just about, out in Cali, but he’d stopped talking to them right around when he’d gone into the hospital, for their safety and his. 

He’s had to close himself off so hard, harden his skin to the shitty jokes people make and keep himself from sneaking glances in the showers and pretend so hard to be straight. It’s exhausting, he thinks, and he feels like he’s shedding his straight-boy skin. 

“I fucked up,” he says to the air, real quiet, reverent like he’s at confession or some shit. “I beat the shit out of this guy, but I shouldn’t have, and now I have a crush on him and I can’t act like a human person around him long enough to apologize and he’s straight anyway.” 

It all comes out in a rush, and just saying it out loud, to these two fucking people he’s never really even met before, doesn’t know all that much about even, feels amazing. He feels freer than he’s been in--maybe forever. Since Neil came around, that’s for damn sure. 

“When I got kicked out of the house, went to Chicago, I was terrified my ma was gonna come for me, try to get me to come back home to my asshole dad,” Axel says in the same hushed tone, a little bit of a Southern accent softens his hard Chicago vowels, “So I changed my name. Not too much, just swapped around some letters. Sometimes I still have dreams where she’s just yelling my name at the top of her lungs, like when she was trying to bring me in from the back garden, _Alex, Aaaaalex!_ ”

“I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal, when I got out into the real world. I almost got my ass kicked, my first night in Pittsburgh,” Kali says all dreamy, “went to a bar and made the bartender think I had an ID and got piss-drunk on shitty cheap whisky. I told this girl she was cute, and she said I was too, and I kissed her on the mouth. Her boyfriend didn’t seem too upset, but when she started cryin’, he got really mad and I had to run for it.” She sounds like it’s still not real for her. Billy feels another rush of anger, distant but strong, like the pull of the tide when you’re standing in the breakers, at the idea of a younger Kali, drunk and crying alone on some stoop. 

He leans off the bed far enough to put on _The Head In the Door_ , and they all hum along. They’re all lost in their own worlds for a while--the shit he gets is good, and they smoked a whole joint real fast. The little panflute thing in _Six Different Ways_ plays around them, and Kali’s moving her fingers to the beat, tapping out the rhythm in the air. He wonders if she plays any instruments or anything.

Then, out of nowhere, Axel goes “Do you want me to kiss you, Billy?”

He stops for a second, thinks about it, but he’s pretty sure it would just make him cry, thinking about Steve and how Billy’s probably never gonna get to kiss him because he’s a mess of a person, and plus Steve’s probably straight anyway. 

“Nah,” he says, tries not to let sadness bleed into his voice, “Thank you, though, for the offer.” 

“You fucked up about your boy?” Kali says knowingly. “I coulda told you not to fall for a straight boy.” The bitterness in her voice makes it clear that she’s still working through her own crush on some lucky straight girl. 

“I miss Red,” Axel says after a minute of silence, real sad and quiet and small. “He, uh, he died a little ways back. We took care of him, until the pneumonia got too bad.” 

“Did you…?” Billy trails off, and they all know what he’s asking. 

“No, he wouldn’t let me. He knew he had it, but no one really knows how you get it, so he wouldn’t even let me kiss him half the time. It’s so _fuckin' unfair_ ,” Axel says, suddenly fierce with quiet rage, “that everybody hates us already and then we get some bullshit fuckin’ disease that _only we’re getting_ and no one who has any power even _gives a shit._ ” 

He’s crying, openly, tears streaming down his face. Billy and Kali look at each other, silently agree to rearrange themselves so Axel’s in between them. They hold him as he shakes himself apart, and he feels like he’s keeping all the important pieces that make up Axel from just, like, floating away and getting lost. Billy starts crying too, just a little. He glances over Axel’s shoulders and sees that Kali’s crying too, but absolutely silent. She doesn’t even sniff when her nose starts running, and his heart breaks for her all over again. 

He knows how to cry that way too. The only reason he’s wiping his nose and breathing heavy and letting a little bit of sob creep into his exhales is because he and El have cried together, once or twice, about different things but at the same time, and she just lets it all out, wails and heaves these big breaths that make him afraid she’s gonna make himself sick. It feels safe, now, to cry a little louder. 

He doesn’t even offer to make them a pallet on the living room floor or the couch or anything, just goes to grab an extra blanket when Axel stops shaking so hard and throws it over them, pulls off his jeans so he can sleep comfortably. The bed’s too small for the three of them, honestly, and he’s glad his bed doesn’t still smell like Steve because if it did he’s not sure he’d ever stop crying. They fall asleep curled up together like spoons in a drawer, Axel still between them, rubbing his wet face all over Billy’s Motley Crue t-shirt. 

At some point, real early in the morning, judging by the watery light seeping in through the shutters, Kali wakes up, pulls Axel out of the bed and downstairs. Billy sits up just enough to see her make a little nest of blankets on the floor. She wraps Axel up in a few blankets like a burrito and makes him take the couch, ignoring his sleepy-voiced protests, and curls up in the fetal position in her little pile of blankets. Billy’s back asleep almost before he can lie back down.

 

“IT IS THANKSGIVING!” El screeches at--oh _god_ , seven-forty-five. It’s loud enough that Hopper comes barrelling out of his room, holding a gun. Axel falls off the couch in surprise, and Kali hits him tiredly. 

“Is everyone okay? What the fuck is going on?” Hop says, real scared. 

“El’s just excited about Thanksgiving,” Billy groans at Hopper, “Go back to bed for an hour or two. I’ve gotta start cooking.” His body aches, a little, and the headache forming at his temples is almost certainly dehydration from crying last night. He unwinds himself from his quilts, and his knee cracks loud in the quiet morning as he climbs down the ladder. Hopper grumbles a bunch about _good-for-nothin’ loudmouth kids_ , but he goes back in to sleep a little more.

Scratching at the itchy patch on his back that’s probably from where Axel was crying on him last night, Billy sets the kettle on to boil, makes El fill up glasses of water for him and Kali and Axel. He drains his in one swallow, and he sees Kali doing the same thing. 

“El, you gonna be my _sous chef_ for the day?” he asks her through a massive yawn. 

“Soos chef?” she says back, confused, and he smiles down at her, only wants to kill her a little for waking him up so early.

“It means you’re the second in command in the kitchen. You get to help me boss Axel and Kali and Hopper around. Grab us aprons, kid,” he says as he roots around in the cupboard for the cornmeal. She passes him Hopper’s dad apron, printed with _Kiss the Cook!_ and puts on her own frilly monstrosity. Axel’s already dozing again somehow; it’s even more impressive considering that the first thing El had done once everyone was awake enough for her liking was put on _Some Girls_ and turn the volume up. Kali grabs some clothes from her rucksack, goes into El’s room to change. 

She comes back wearing a nice skirt, knee length and navy blue, and an _amazing_ blue-and-neon-pink sweater. It’s exactly what he’d expect if someone had asked him to imagine what Kali considers appropriate dressing up for Thanksgiving, somehow. She takes the plain apron from the hook and puts it on. 

“Alright, El if you’ll clean the cranberries off, just rinse ‘em in the sink, and then put them in the pot with a cup of water and a cup of sugar and the juice from that orange over there, we can get the cranberry sauce going.” Kali looks at him expectantly, like, _okay, I’m here, what do you want from me?_

“Kali, uh, if you could break up that cornbread into, uh, this bowl, just kinda squish it into little crumbs basically, thank you.” he says, gesturing to the pan he’d left out on the stove last night to dry out. He remembers real quick what his mom had said about one of their apartments, when it was just the two of them; she called their tiny postage stamp of a kitchen a _one butt kitchen_. It had made him laugh like crazy, then, but now he realizes just how right she was. El’s sloshing water all over the damn counter and Kali’s cackling a little as she messes with El and crumbles up cornbread at the stove and there’s absolutely _nowhere_ he can work with the turkey. 

He takes the big roasting pan Hopper’d pulled out of storage last week over to the table, hauls the big-ass turkey out of the fridge, and has to make a second trip to the counter for the butter and the rosemary and garlic and the lemons. He quarters up the lemons, then gets to work unwrapping the bird, pulling the giblets out. Luckily, they’re already in a bag, and he puts that grossness back in the fridge to stay cold. 

“Kali, will you turn the oven on to, uh, 350?” he asks, re-reading the turkey recipe. “And then, uh, do you know how to make peanut butter cookies?” She’s already almost done with the cornbread, and he has his concerns about what’ll happen if she gets bored. The kettle whistles as she’s finding the right dial on the oven, and she reaches over to turn it off. El’s got everything in the pot for cranberry sauce, and she looks at him expectantly like what do I do now, oh master of the kitchen.

“El, will you make the three of us tea while Kali puts the cranberry sauce on medium?” he says, trying to direct traffic as best he can, and when El pulls a frown at him, he sighs “you’re gonna get to watch the sauce, stir it and stuff, but I don’t want you to burn Kali or vice versa.”

She rolls his eyes, all dramatic, but she makes them tea anyways. Kali takes a sip of hers carefully, like she’s testing for poison, then takes a bigger drink, looking pleasantly surprised. 

“I don’t,” she says, and when he looks at her blankly, she adds “know how to make peanut butter cookies. But I can follow a recipe, I’ve been working at a kitchen when we have the time.” He talks her through the process of mixing up the dough, one of the only recipes he's got memorized, as El watches the cranberries swell and pop in the sauce, just as riveted as she is when _Jeopardy!_ ’s on. 

Finally, once everyone else seems situated, Kali checking on El’s sauce every so often to make sure it’s not overcooking, he washes his hands and arms, up to the elbow, and starts trying to get under the skin of the turkey with butter. The butter’s still pretty cold, but he puts it next to El’s burner on the stovetop for a minute and it softens okay. He’s a little too delicate with it at first, afraid of ripping through the skin, but eventually he gets both hands in, rubbing the butter into the breast. 

It’s really, _really fucking gross_ , he reflects to himself as he’s poking slivers of garlic clove in under the skin too, but it’s kinda cool, too. He likes cooking, even though he’s never done it a whole lot. He gets the bird in the oven finally, stuffed with lemons and rosemary and salted all over and ready to roast over a bed of big chunks of carrot. 

El’s sauce is done pretty quick, and he pours it into a clean mason jar and puts it in the fridge for later. They can’t really do the cookies and the turkey at the same time, mostly because he’s kind of afraid he’ll make the cookies taste like turkey, but he and Kali and El roll up the batter into balls, press their thumbs into the middle, and squish Hershey’s Kisses into the depression left behind. They put them in the fridge to chill, and they all have a minute to sit down and breathe. 

They’re eating something small at two, but they’re all saving most of their Thanksgiving dinner space for the potluck. Apparently, Joyce’s green bean casserole is really good, if the number of times El’s asked about it this month is any indication. They turn on the Macy’s parade on the tv, and now that all the work is basically done for now, Axel wakes up. Billy coaches him through using their coffee maker, and at around 9:30 Hopper wakes up for real and comes out of his room, hair a fuckin’ mess. 

“El,” he says all serious, “It’s _not okay_ to yell like that, I thought somebody was hurting you.” The cowlick at the back of his head’s standing straight up, and all of them can’t help but crack up as it shakes along with his lecture. When he gets all huffy about his _authority_ or whatever, El points to the back of his head, and he blushes and smooths his hair down. It mostly works, and they all decide wordlessly not to say anything else about it until he gets some coffee in his system. 

After an hour or so of vegging out on the couch, Billy gets up to chop celery and shred chicken breast for the cornbread stuffing. Axel wanders in to refill his coffee, and when he sees what Billy’s making, he gets all excited. 

“Oh, my ma used to make this every year,” he says, eyes mostly happy. “The white bread stuffing they make up here is _so fucking gross_ , right?”

“The bread’s so _slimy_ ,” Billy agrees seriously, and Axel helps him understand the instructions about soaking the cornbread crumbs in chicken broth. They get the stuffing in the oven, and then it’s another waiting game while that cooks.

At around one, he finally goes to take out the turkey. It’s weird, all of a sudden he sees smoke in the oven, and when he opens it all this smoke billows out, but he doesn’t smell burning or anything. He pulls the turkey out quick, thinking maybe it’s the carrots or something, but it looks like the whole turkey’s just-- _black_. He literally feels like he’s about to cry or somethin’ girly like that, feels the tears rising to his eyes, when suddenly the smoke disappears and he’s looking at this beautiful turkey, skinall golden and crispy and _beautiful_. 

“KALI!” he bellows, and goes outside to smoke a cigarette, half-serious anger keeping him warm even though he’s not wearing a jacket. It must’ve snowed some last night; there’s powdery snow all over everything. The cabin, when he looks back at it, still fuming a little, looks like a painting, like someone sprinkled powdered sugar all over it or somethin’ stupid like that.

When he comes back in, Hopper’s trying to hide a smile as he makes gravy and Axel and El are absolutely howling with laughter. He grabs Kali from where’s she’s laughing at them, trying to give her a noogie, and she elbows him in the stomach. He doubles over, and she smiles down at him with sharp little teeth.

“Fuckin’ _menace_ ,” he hisses at her, and laughs when Hopper yells _LANGUAGE_ from the stove like he doesn't swear every other sentence. He climbs upstairs to get real clothes to change into, his nicest pair of jeans and the red button-up he knows makes him look good. 

When he’s looking at himself in the mirror after he showers, though, he remembers this is the shirt he was wearing when, well, everything happened. He’s rifling through his clothes for something else nice enough to wear to dinner later, and Kali’s suddenly next to him, pulling out a white button down he doesn’t wear often. He kind of feels like a liar when he wears it, like a bride who’s _definitely_ not a virgin. _Sinful_ , his decrepit old math teacher’d said whenever he wore it to school in Cali. 

“Sorry I pranked you,” Kali says, but her eyes still sparkling with mischief don’t look real sorry. “You’ll look really good in this, make everybody jealous.” She pats him on the stomach companionably, not quite hard enough to be called a smack, and crawls back down to give him some privacy. 

Axel wolf-whistles when he comes down, trying to make the curl on his forehead lay right. El tries, too, but she can’t get it. Kali just smirks at him. Axel’s trying to teach El how to wolf whistle, now, and Hopper looks like one of those paintings of tormented saints, eyes to the heavens, face slack with annoyance. They eat a little bit of the stuffing and the rest of the chicken Billy’d roasted yesterday for lunch, some of the carrots from under the turkey which are so so good, savory and rich and a little sweet. He notices everybody sneaking into the kitchen for extra forkfuls of carrot, and he’s not sure that any carrots are gonna make it to the potluck at this rate.

They bake the cookies right before they get ready to go; Axel’s layering them into a Tupperware and moaning about getting burnt by _molten hot chocolate lava_ , which cracks El up to no end. Hopper teaches Billy how to carve the turkey, and they only shred a little bit of it by accident. They load up, Hopper and the food in the truck, El and Axel and Kali in some boxy horrible sedan they’d promised Hopper wasn’t stolen, Billy empty-handed on his way to go pick up Max and whatever horrible concoction she’s decided to bring. 

 

“BILLY we’re gonna be LATE,” Max wails as she comes running out of the house, a package of store-baked rolls in one hand and some weird little hockey-puck shaped things she claims are drop biscuits in the other. She slams the door of the Camaro, much harder than necessary, and they’re off to Hopper’s old place. He ends up following behind Byers’ hearse most of the way, which makes him a lot less nervous about getting lost. 

Max is kinda quiet on the ride, doesn’t pop off immediately with some huge dramatic story about Thanksgiving, which makes him a little nervous.

“How was your dinner earlier?” he asks, cautious. 

“It was fine, my mom forgot that the oven runs hot so everything was a little burnt. She made these really good green bean thingies, wrapped in bacon with brown sugar or somethin’ on ‘em, I ate about seven. Neil got mad at her for burning everything, but he just went into their room and watched football stuff all day.” She doesn’t have the shifty look on her face she gets when she’s lying, this almost-imperceptible tightness around her eyes, so he lets it drop. 

There’s about seventeen cars around Hopper’s other house, it feels like, but none of the parents except Hopper and Joyce are sticking around. Dustin’s mom, he thinks, looks fucking tired, which isn’t surprising considering all the energy her son must take to raise. He parks next to Jonathan’s ugly fuckin’ Buick, but before he can get out of the car Max grabs his wrist. 

“It was kinda shitty,” she says all small, “Not having you there for Thanksgiving. The house felt so empty. But I’m glad we’re all gonna eat and have a good time together now. I’m glad you’re here, even if I haven’t forgiven you yet.” He can tell by the look on her face that she’s just holding the grudge for honor’s sake at this point, and he smiles at her, a real smile. 

“I’m gonna try to get Lucas alone, talk it through tonight,” he says all gentle, “But if I don’t, I’m gonna do it this weekend. You guys are goin’ to the arcade on Saturday, right? Ask if he wants us to give him a ride, and I’ll talk to him then if I don’t get to today.” 

She nods, looking a little happier already, and she runs into the house like a bat out of hell, yelling “HI EVERYONE” loud enough he can hear it from where he’s still in the car. Steve’s Beemer is still here, and he’s gonna have to go in and make small talk and be nice soon, but he just sits for a second, building up his strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi pals! 
> 
> A literal thing I said out loud to myself as I was writing earlier: "I probably shouldn't split Thanksgiving into two chapters, but I've gotta get to the point if that's gonna happen." But then I accidentally got sad about the AIDS crisis and, well, here we are. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for being so so kind and commenting, kudosing, reading, etc. It makes my heart so happy that other humans care about the thing I'm writing!!! I love all your comments and I'm doing my best to reply to all of them. You have no idea how much fun I'm having, sharing this process with y'all. (I didn't have any idea how much I'd like it until I started sharing it, actually!)
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Stuff**
> 
>   * The title of this chapter comes from _Our House_ , by Madness. Other artists/music mentioned in this chapter include: Circle Jerks, The Adolescents, The Cure, and a whole bunch of Joan Jett. The first two are punk bands, both very good if you're angry and/or doing some cardio. Joan Jett is _so so hot_. See below for proof.
>   * Everyone please go watch [this video of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTfHhNg1iII) performing _Crimson and Clover_ and tell me you wouldn't have sex with her if given the chance. It's just....so _seductive_. Also, she doesn't change the pronouns from the original and, thusly, every time I watch this video, I remember just How Gay I Am (tm). Also also, the band yelling BA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA behind her is for some reason so fucking funny to me.
>   * I made Billy both (a) the child of a sort of Southern mom (as evidenced by the one-butt kitchen quote and the fact that she makes cornbread stuffing instead of white bread stuffing) and (b) a relapsed Catholic because I am both of those things. I, too, chose St. Jude as my patron saint, because I was twelve and edgy and knew I wasn't gonna be in the church much longer. And I, too, hate white bread stuffing with the heat of a thousand suns, because it's slimy and gross and sometimes people _leave the crusts on their fucking Wonderbread inside the stuffing_ and that's my actual nightmare. 
>   * Me: _spends two hours in a google-hole looking for prom dresses in 1984 last night_  
>  Also me: _uses the dresses they wore in the show because I got tired of looking_
>   * Is it realistic that Steve spends his whole-ass evening making Billy's bedroom feel like a place where a real human lives? No. Did I do it anyways? Absolutely. But fear not, dear readers, not all has been forgiven. There will be drama, I promise.
>   * I _meant_ to post this with the last chapter, but [here's the link](https://open.spotify.com/user/nikwarr/playlist/009QoRVjhdGTv2godNNaoi?si=IaO4hw9dQs21QCCre99EvQ) to the music on Steve's Walkman! (and, I suppose, in his car. really these two playlists are more intended as mood pieces so I can write them easier. the next playlist is, like, plot relevant.) 
>   * I did make Axel and Kali gay, why yes. No reason other than I wanted to give them a reason to bond with Billy (other than the obvious fact that this Billy loves punk music and Pittsburgh had/still has a pretty good punk scene, which, speaking of, the only reason I'd ever enter the city limits of Philly is to go to a punk show, their punk scene is apparently _killer_.)
> 

> 
> **In the next installment (which should be in the next 2 days or so): a frightening amount of food is consumed; Kali takes mental notes about every one of Steve and Billy's interactions, or lack thereof; and Steve gets another chance to speak.**


	6. (i think) you're headed for a breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which everyone eats themselves into food comas, Steve gets a shovel talk, and Billy makes not one but_ two _apologies. What an eventful Thanksgiving!_

Steve’s started having this new nightmare. It’s just as fucked up as the other one he's been having, in the tunnels, but there’s no demodog in this one, no kids to save. Instead, it’s just like his brain has decided to start showing him the ass-kicking Billy gave him, over and over, until he wishes he was dead, that the beating could just be _over_. 

He wakes up screaming, the first night he has it. It’s weird, because when he thinks about Billy conceptually, outside of that horrible night, he’s all-consumed with this big gay (bisexual?) crush. But any time he sees Billy in real life, swaggering down the hallways or flirting with Suzette Hampton from Steve’s study hall, his chest gets all tight and he feels like he’s gonna pass out. Not in the fun way, either; in the bad way, where he starts shaking and he loses his grip on whatever he’s holding at the time. 

He spends a lot of time picking up his keys and notebooks off the floor, is all he’s saying. He and Dustin are at the mall Saturday, shopping for _a suit jacket that actually fits, Dustin, you can’t just wear my sports coat and call it a day if you’re trying to impress the ladies_ , when he sights the blaze of Max’s hair across the food court, sees El’s curls and Billy’s blonde mess next to her, and literally runs in the opposite direction. Dustin doesn’t even make fun of him for it, which is how he knows Dustin feels sorry for him. Jesus, being pitied by a fucking thirteen year old who wears a fucking _flipper_ is probably a new low for him. 

It sucks especially considering that Billy’s not even, like, threatening him anymore. He finds out from Dustin and even Mike that Billy apologized to them, and apparently they were, like, decent apologies and everything. He spends a lot of time Friday night thinking about Billy, when Mike calls him to talk about how weird it was to see Billy yelling at _Jeopardy!_ and helping with dinner and _doing his homework_ like he’s just some normal person, and how Billy had apologized for real and it had seemed like he meant it. He’d said Billy had told Mike he respected Steve for what he’d done, that he’d help if anything else ever happened, which is so out of left field that Steve’s a little concerned Billy’s been bodysnatched. When Mike says Billy gave him a huge noogie when he beat Mike at _Jeopardy!_ , though, well, _that_ sounds like the real Billy. 

Billy isn’t a bad dude, but he is kind of an asshole, is the conclusion that he comes to finally. He’s been treated like shit for years, by his dad for sure, and given the way he blew into town, daring anybody to say anything to him, probably by plenty of other people. It makes sense, why he’s so aggressive, why he has to push his whole alpha male thing on everybody else. It just--well, it kinda sucks, that Billy’s trying to make amends with everyone except him. And Lucas, apparently, who’s not holding his breath that Billy’s gonna grow as a person enough to actually apologize to him, judging by the sarcastic comments he makes whenever Billy comes up in conversation.

On Sunday, Hopper calls and asks if he can take Max home when he picks up Dustin at the arcade. Billy's taking an accidental nap, apparently, which makes Steve think about how sometimes at the zoo the big cats just, like, decide they’re suddenly tired of prowling around their enclosure and drop down wherever they are and are immediately asleep. 

He drops Dustin off first, which he normally wouldn’t. Mrs. Henderson comes rushing out to the car, holding a tupperware container full of hot dish. It’s probably his least favorite thing she makes, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the boiled eggs and cereal dinner he’d feed himself otherwise. 

“Hi, honey, thank you _so much_ for bringing my little Dusty home, are you going to pick him up for the Thanksgiving thing or do I need to drop him off?”

“If you could, ma’am, that would be easier. I’m gonna have pies and mac and cheese and all kinds of other stuff in the car, so it’ll be hard to get Dustin and his contribution in without something getting destroyed,” Steve smiles a little ruefully. Dustin’s kind of a tornado, and they both know it.

“Alright, that’s fine! Did he tell you I’m teaching him how to make sweet potato casserole this year? So that’s what we’re bringing, unless it turns out so bad I have to send another casserole instead,” she says, laughing a little at the thought. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, tipping his head to gesture at Max in the backseat like _I’ve got another straggler to take home_. 

“Thanks, honey, I’ll see ya then!” she says, and goes back inside. It’s _Murder She Wrote_ night in the Henderson household, so tomorrow morning when Dustin gets in his car, he’ll probably start yapping about some wild new plot to kill Billy if he doesn’t get his act together. 

“She seems nice,” Max says all quiet when they’re back on the main road. 

“Yeah, when she found out my parents are out of town so often, she decided I’m adopted now,” Steve sighs, like it’s some big pain, but he’s blushing with pleasure hard enough that she can probably see it. 

“Your parents are gone a lot?” she asks, and he’s kind of forgotten that she and Billy don’t know all about his weird home life. Everyone else in town knows; Florence the receptionist at the police station tells Hopper that she can start making Steve casseroles too like, once a week. 

“Yeah, my dad has to travel for business all the time, he runs this international company, and my mom usually goes with him.” He doesn’t really like to talk about it; there’s nothing he can do about it, and it makes people feel sorry for him. 

“I wish Neil was gone all the time,” she grouses, but it doesn’t sound like normal teenage angst. He thinks about how Billy’s face is finally healing up, the bruises fading slow and mottled and ugly, and--he just wants to make sure, is all. 

“He doesn’t hit you or call you names or, uh, make you feel, uh, uncomfortable or anything, right?” Steve asks, a little awkward. 

“He doesn’t hit me, or touch me weird or anything,” she says, chin firm. “Mostly he just talks a lot about Billy about what a qu--about how he can’t do anything right, about how he tattled to the Chief and stuff. He doesn’t really say anything to me, as long as I stay out of his way.” She sounds like she’s telling the truth, at least as far as he can tell anyways. She cuts herself off in the middle of a sentence, and he has no idea what the hell she was going to say, but she sounds really upset that her dad--well, Billy’s dad, he guesses--talks about Billy that way. 

“You’d tell someone, if he did start doing anything shitty?” he asks all serious, “Billy or Hopper or one of your teachers or, or me, I guess.” He knows she’s on Billy’s side, even though she doesn’t have any problem complaining about Billy’s attitude or the things he’s done wrong, but she needs to know she can count on him, too.

“Yeah, I know,” she says, all _I’ve heard this a thousand times but I appreciate it I guess_. It’s funny, when she first started hanging around with the guys he had thought she was an open book. Usually, she is; she’s not afraid to yell, to tell Lucas and Dustin and Mike _exactly_ what they’re doing wrong and how they can fix it. But sometimes, usually about Billy or Neil or why they moved, she’s like a fish in a river or something, where you feel like you could reach in and grab them but they’re actually like three inches to the left and you look like an idiot for trying.

“I’m sorry you have to stay, after what he did to Billy and all,” he goes after a minute, all lame and awkward. 

“I didn’t think _you_ would care what happened to Billy.” She’s got this look on her face, all prim and proper and mature, like _I know more about you than you do_. God, she’s a little bit terrifying sometimes. 

“Just because he, uh, did what he did doesn’t mean I can’t care, I mean, he’s a person, and he’s important to you, and I care about you, so of course I would care about him,” he tries to explain, all flustered, but he can tell by the look on her face that she’s not buying it. 

“I know he hurt you, and I _know_ that wasn’t okay, and he knows it wasn’t okay too. But I’m gonna tell you something, and I _really_ fucking _mean it_ ,” she hisses at him, like a cat with her back up, “he’s not gonna hurt you again, not on purpose. I expect you to do the same. From what El said, Billy wasn’t the only one who acted like an asshole when he tried to apologize. He’s scared, and alone kinda, and he needs people who can be nice to him.” She crosses her arms, makes unblinking eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. 

_Jesus_ , he needs to remind Lucas not to fuck around and hurt her, because he’s pretty sure not even _Hopper_ could find the body if she didn’t want him to. It’s funny, hearing her all protective; it reminds him almost of Billy, before he pushed Steve--well, before everything. 

“I’m not going to try to hurt him, Max, I promise that. But you understand I can’t exactly just let it go, right? Just like Lucas can’t.” He ‘accidentally’ makes a left on Sunset instead of a right; he figures they should finish this conversation before they get to her house. 

“I’m not saying you should. But he regrets it, and I know he’s trying really hard or whatever. So maybe be a little bit more patient, when he talks to you next. I’ve heard him say he’s sorry more _this month_ than I have in the entire two years he’s been around.

“You know he’s the person who bought me my board? He used to take me down to Dogtown like every weekend so I could practice. Didn’t matter who he was seeing at the time, how much homework or how many chores he had or how mad Neil was about it. But then--well, he had to toughen up. Neil’s, uh, Neil’s messed him up real bad.” God, it’s so _weird_ to hear her talk about Billy like this. He almost can’t imagine Billy, outside this bombastic person he was when he came to town. He caught a glimpse, maybe, when he walked in on Billy and El’s geology lesson, and he’d _mocked_ Billy about it. He’s such an idiot.

“Yeah, I can almost imagine it,” he says, and she moves forward to look at his face, to see if he’s being sarcastic probably. They’ve gotten turned the right direction, and he knows most of the way to the house now. He’s only been a few times, but she tells him where to turn once he gets into their shitty little neighborhood. 

“He deserves people who love him,” she says real quiet, right as they’re turning onto her street. “He’s--he deserves it.”

“I know,” Steve murmurs back, “and so do you, deserve people who care about you I mean. You have my phone number, right?” She shakes her head no, so he fumbles around for one of the paper napkins he keeps in the car for when Dustin inevitably eats in the front seat and drips shit all over himself, finds a pen, scrawls his number. 

“You call me if you ever need anything. I don’t care if you need a ride and Billy can’t bring you or if Neil does any weird shit or if you just want to tell someone about what you saw on _Ripley’s Believe it or Not_. And we’ve got plenty of guest rooms at my house, if you really need to get away from your parents.” She smiles at him, a little shy, and says thank you. 

As he’s driving himself home, he realizes it’s probably the quietest he’s ever heard Max talk, at least for that long at once.

 

He forgot to get the butter he needs to make the extra batch of mac and cheese for Thanksgiving, so he runs by the store after he drops Dustin off at home on Tuesday. 

He’s planning on picking up some extra stuff, too, more milk and some extra cheese and breadcrumbs and shit just in case, but when he gets to the dairy case, Billy’s grabbing the last two pounds of butter. God, _of course_ Billy isn’t thinking about the other people who might need butter today, _of course_ Steve has to deal with him when he’s already in a bad mood. So he snaps at Billy, a little, about sharing. He’s surprised he can make himself be that nice, even, given how his heart’s racing and he feels like he might die or something else embarrassing.

Billy doesn’t snap back, though; he’s--flirting? It makes Steve feel wrong-footed, like when he accidentally skips the last step into the sunken living room and his stomach flops a little. But he’s teasing Steve a little, trying to _goad_ him or something. Steve, for a brief second, thinks about driving over to Mayfield for butter, but he doesn’t really have time; his parents are supposed to call in half an hour and he needs to be home to get the phone or his dad’ll be pissed. 

So he pushes past his fear and anger, shoves into Billy’s personal space and grabs the butter. If his hands are shaking so hard he almost can’t punch in the pin for his card when he checks out, well, Billy’s not there to see it. He probably has enough of everything else, he thinks as he takes his butter, sans bag, and hightails it out of the store.

And if he has to hyperventilate in his car for a few minutes before he can get himself together enough to drive home, it’s between him and Mrs. Bailey, the old lady who lives down his street and is apparently just about to do some last minute shopping of her own. She waits in her car until he drives off, which is embarrassing, but she’s always really nice and when there’s a storm or something and they lose power, she always pushes her little walker over from two doors down to make sure he’s okay. She’s nice enough, and who’s she gonna tell?

 

His dad is being an _asshole_ when his parents call the house later. They’re somewhere beautiful and sunny where they don’t even, like, celebrate Thanksgiving, and his mom makes some comment about how _sorry_ she is that they can’t be there for the holiday. His dad just scoffs, though, says something about how _Steve’s old enough to be left on his own, he_ told _us he would be fine, Thanksgiving’s not even a real holiday so why should we change our lives around to be home for some bullshit holiday_. He asks if Steve wants them to fly in for Valentine’s Day, _since he’s so worried about us being around for fake shit_. 

Clearly his dad’s been drinking for a while, from the way he doesn’t censor his disdain; his mom has, too, if the worried tone in her voice isn’t faked. She only worries about him when she’s drunk. Whatever, they keep money in his bank account and a roof over his head, what the fuck does it even matter if they’re home for Thanksgiving? If they were here, his dad would just be complaining about not being able to do business and his mom would be fussing over him like she cares what the hell he does when they’re gone and they’d both ask him where he’s applied to college, which. Is kind of a sore spot. 

 

It’s still kind of a bummer, waking up on Thanksgiving morning to his alarm and a silent, empty house. He’d had the horrible Billy dream twice last night, probably because he’s not sure how he feels about Billy being at the big potluck later. His dad shelled out for the good sound system through the whole downstairs, though, so he puts on _Dolly Dolly Dolly_ to get his mind off Billy and that horrible dream and starts making pies. He made the dough last night, used the good vodka from his dad’s cabinet to make the crust extra-flaky. He’s making a pumpkin pie, because El requested it, and a cherry pie, because everyone else likes it. He’s working on the lattice for the apple pie and the dough rose for the middle of the pumpkin pie, singing off-key to _Fool For Your Love_ when the phone rings.

“STEVE,” Dustin yells in his ear, “My mom wants to know if you’re alone, she says NOBODY SHOULD BE ALONE ON THANKSGIVING.” 

“Listen squirt,” he says, a little loud to cover up Dolly, “I have pies and mac and cheese to make. I won’t be alone later, when everyone’s at the Chief’s old place, and until then I’ll be too busy to be lonely. Tell you ma I said thank you, though, and that I’ll bring you home later.” 

“Okay,” Dustin says, and then, like he’s trying to make Steve go deaf, “HAPPY TURKEY DAY!” 

Steve hangs up on him. He manages not to cry when Dolly sings _Even a Fool Would Let You Go_ , but it’s a near thing. Dolly just _gets_ heartbreak, in a way Tears for Fears and Duran Duran could never, gets not wanting to leave a no-good man. And when it rolls over into _Sweet Agony_ , Steve shouts along, _I ache for you, I beg for you to set me free from this agony, sweet agony_ , swinging his hips and using the spoon he’s using to stir the apples as a microphone. 

He’s got the pies in one oven and he’s about three minutes from putting in the mac and cheese when the record ends. He puts on Queen, next, mostly because if Dolly Parton sings to him about heartbreak and true love any more, he’ll just become a sentient being made of tears and he’ll burn the pies by accident or something.

 

As he’s putting the pies in his car, safe and secure in the crystal cake plates his mom only uses for company and buckled in like they’re toddlers or something, the fear comes back. He changes clothes about six times--where the _hell_ did he put his snowflake sweater?--and he has to turn around before he even gets out of the neighborhood when he remembers the trays of mac and cheese, still sitting on the kitchen island. He thinks, very briefly, about not showing up, but that’d probably bring Hopper and Joyce and all the kids down on his house like a plague of locusts to make sure he’s okay, and he _really_ doesn’t need Jonathan giving him some look of pity for his empty chasm of a house. 

He’s so distracted he almost misses the turn-off to the old house, but when he gets to Hopper’s old place, Billy’s car is nowhere to be seen. He’s ferrying in all his food, terrified to drop the cherry pie, when Dustin comes barreling out of his mom's car like he’s been shot from a cannon, straight at Steve. He almost drops the still-steaming Pyrex full of sweet potato casserole onto Steve’s feet, but thank God, some tall skinny white dude is there to grab Dustin before tragedy strikes. 

“BYE, MOM!” Dustin bellows, and his mom waves sweetly before she starts her thirty-five-point turn to head back home. “Who’re you?” he asks the guy, who, now that Steve’s getting a good look at him, kind of looks like--

“Axel,” he says, real mellow. “I’m a guest of El’s, I guess. It’s Steve, right?” he asks, and when Steve nods, he goes “let me help you carry stuff, we don’t have anything to bring in until Billy gets here.”

Huh, Steve thinks as Axel grabs both trays of mac and cheese and guides Dustin safely inside the house, he looks a lot different than Steve had imagined when Hopper’d said El was _out with some damn gutterpunks in fuckin’ Chicago by herself_. If Axel’s here, Kali’s probably here too, he realizes, and he’s not sure whether to be excited or nervous, what with all the craziness he’s heard her powers can cause.

He’s fussing with the pies, making sure they look nice on the dessert table, when Max comes rushing in the door with a bunch of rolls and, uh, some hockey pucks(??) and yells HI EVERYONE at the top of her lungs like an asshole. It’s a small house; Dustin and Lucas and Will and El are all grouped together, talking about what sounds like D&D in the living room and Steve’s in the kitchen with Hopper and Joyce and, weirdly enough, Axel and Kali, so they’re all within the burst radius of Max’s screech. Kali jerks back like she’s been burned, but everyone else kind of just shrugs it off and goes back to whatever else they’re doing. 

“I’ll go help Billy get the food from the car,” Axel offers, looking a little uncomfortable. Kali shoots him a glare like _don’t leave me here with these adults_ , but follows him outside, presumably to help too. 

“You promised you’d be civil,” Hop leans over to remind Steve, and he waves a hand over his shoulder at Hopper like whatever. 

“I said I’d be civil _as long as Billy’s civil_.” Joyce covers her mouth like she’s trying to hide a smile or something, which is only a little hurtful. 

Jonathan and Nancy and Mike come in then, a gust of wind bringing in the smells of snow and sausage. 

“We brought sausage balls, I had to _fight my dad_ to keep him from eating half of them!” Mike says real loud right next to him, trying to shove over all the desserts on the counter to make space for their food. Steve grabs the tupperware out of his hands, turns around and gives it to Joyce, who puts it with the rest of the savory food over by the stove. This sector of the kitchen is a strictly-sweets zone. 

The door opens again, and in come Kali and Axel, balancing a jar of cranberry sauce and another box of cookies on top of a pan of dressing and what looks like the largest turkey in all of Hawkins, respectively. Steve looks at the door expectantly, waiting for Billy, but it’s a few minutes before Lucas storms in, Billy trailing behind him. 

Shit, Billy looks _so_ good, Steve has time to think before the rush of anxiety overwhelms him. Billy’s wearing what Max calls his _nice jeans_ , which are in a lot better shape than his other jeans, Steve guesses, but are also _a lot_ tighter in the ass, and this white button-up Steve wants to take off with his _teeth_ , and his hair looks softer than usual, like he didn’t tease it and hairspray it to death this morning. 

The part of him that’s not afraid notices these things, distantly, stores them away for later when Steve’s not paralyzed in fear. The rest of him, though, almost drops the box of cookies Axel’s just handed him in the wave of terror crashing over him; thankfully, the counter’s right there and he can play it off like he just put it down too hard when Hopper looks at him funny. Kali’s staring at him too, like he’s a puzzle she’s trying to figure out, and he makes an executive decision to ignore her scrutiny before she kicks his ass or something.

Joyce starts handing out plates, says the guests get food first, then the rest of the adults, then the kiddos. The kids are all, understandably, not excited, especially when she reminds them they have to go around and say what they’re thankful for before anyone can eat.

“Are you trying to DEPRIVE US of this THANKSGIVING FEAST?” Dustin whines, and she just ruffles his hair and walks away chuckling. Kali and Axel get smaller portions than he would’ve thought; he’s pretty sure living in a fucking _warehouse_ makes it hard to get a nice home-cooked meal, and he knows firsthand how exciting it is to eat hot food someone else cooked with love and time and stuff. 

He loads up on mac and cheese and green bean casserole and stuffing--the _normal_ white bread kind, not the weird cornbread kind Billy and Axel are raving over next to him--and gets a couple little slices of thigh meat wedged between the “drop biscuit” he took so Max’s heart isn’t broken and his sweet potato casserole. 

“Wouldn’t’a pegged you for a dark meat boy,” Billy leers from behind him, and Steve almost drops his whole plate he’s so flustered. He gets his glass of ice water and nearly runs over to wedge himself between El and Lucas on the couch. A major flaw in his plan very quickly comes to light when they both hop up to get in line for food, but thankfully Axel and Kali squish in next to him instead. 

“BILLY I’m gonna sit next to you on the floor, save me a pillow,” Max says from across the room, and Billy stands back up from the chair he was about to sit in and flops onto the floor near Kali. 

Hopper and Joyce share the armchair instead, looking all cozy, which Steve makes a mental note to think about when he’s not distracted by Billy’s nearness or the plate piled high with carbs-and-protein in his lap. Once everybody’s situated, right as Dustin’s trying to sneak a bite of mac and cheese, Joyce claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. 

“Alright, kiddos, I’ll start! I’m thankful that all of you kids are in my life, and that you’re all safe for once; nobody get kidnapped or anything and we’ll have the best blended Thanksgiving of all time,” Joyce laughs, only a little teary-eyed. “Hopper, it’s your turn.”

“Uh, I’m thankful I didn’t have to make the turkey this year,” he jokes, then when Joyce smacks him on the arm like _say something nice_ , he goes “No, I’m thankful for El and for Billy, even though he’s a pain in my ass.” Everybody laughs, still, but Billy has this weird look on his face, all bashful or something. 

“Kali, Hopper, Billy, Axel.” El gets right to the point, blinking around at Hopper like _what, I said a true thing_. 

“I’m thankful for El being back around and my friends and even Max, I guess,” Mike says, and Max blushes bright red. _Man_ , he’s so fucking glad Mike’s gotten over that weird phase where he was an asshole to her. 

Nancy’s thankful for friends and family and Jonathan’s thankful for his camera (he nods at Steve, who’d left a new camera and some canisters of film on his front porch a while back; Steve’s surprised he figured out who left it). Will’s thankful he’s stopped having weird dreams and for the cool new tape Jonathan made him. Dustin’s thankful for food and, after some prodding, friends who don’t kill him when he brings home a demodog, with a special shout out to Steve for his _awesome love advice_. 

“I’m just thankful none of us have died yet, really,” says Lucas, ever the pragmatist.

“I’m thankful that you haven’t killed Billy yet, Hopper, and that I have _one whole friend_ who’s a girl,” Max says all charming, batting her eyelashes at the Chief. Nancy scoffs, all offended, and Max rolls her eyes and adds “Make that _two_ whole girl friends.”

It takes Billy a second, apparently, to think of what he’s thankful for. 

“I’m thankful for second chances,” he declares finally, carefully, looking at Hopper and Max and Lucas and Mike, even. He probably looks at Steve, too, but the idea of Billy’s attention fully on him makes Steve want to die, in more ways that one, so he’s already looking over at Axel. 

“I’m thankful for second chances, too,” he says, “And to all of you guys for letting us crash your little party.”

“I’m thankful for the families we make,” Kali murmurs, and everyone smiles at each other all misty-eyed. Joyce goes to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, crying openly now, and Hopper hands her his hanky like a true gentleman. 

“I’m thankful for for Dustin, he makes me feel like a real casanova,” Steve jokes, and all the kids laugh at him. Hopper looks at him all serious, like, I had to be honest and so do you. “And for all you shitheads I have to care about now.”

Joyce is satisfied, then, and Hopper flicks the TV on to the football game as the kids attack their food like wild animals. Billy turns around to look at the TV, and Max does too, probably impressed by all the violence, the little creep. Axel’s half-watching the game, but he and Kali both keep looking over at Steve every five seconds like he’s gonna explode or something. 

He focuses entirely on his plate; it’s the first real food he’s had all day and he plans to eat himself sick. After a while, the kids all clamor for dessert, and everyone eats so much they’re all dozy-eyed. Billy and Kali and Axel slip out of the house, come back in smelling like Billy’s woodsy, leathery cologne and menthols and weed. Joyce raises an eyebrow at them, but Billy just passes her a joint she stashes in the pocket of her sweater and she drops her head back down on Hopper’s shoulder. 

The kids get a brief hit of energy from all the sugar, but Hopper puts on _Ghostbusters_ in one of the back rooms and they all go to watch it. When Steve gets up to clear plates twenty minutes later, too nervous to nap, all the kids are passed out on the carpet, curled up like dogs around each other. He’s rinsing off dishes to start the dishwasher when someone comes up behind him. 

Billy boxes him in with his arms and whispers, “Come talk to me outside for a second.” He’s out from behind Steve, already on his way out the door, before Steve can hit Billy with the instinctual elbow he shoves behind him. Steve finishes the stack of plates he’s working on, trying to find some excuse not to follow Billy. He can’t come up with one, though, so he shrugs on his coat and goes to meet his doom or whatever. 

_________________________________________

When Billy’s sitting in his car, trying to decide if he’s ready to go see Steve, much less deal with the bedlam it’s gonna be with all the kids inside, Lucas walks by, carrying a dish full of what looks like mashed potatoes. No time like the present, he figures.

“Sinclair,” Billy barks out of his car window. Lucas jumps a little, but keeps hold of the food he’s holding. “Come here,” he beckons, and Lucas opens the passenger side door, grimaces real exaggerated at the turkey and the rest of the food in the seat like, _oh well, guess I can’t stay to chat_. He’s straightening up to go inside when Kali and Axel come falling out of the house towards the Camaro.

“We’ll get the food, Billy, so you guys can talk if you wanna,” Kali offers all cool, shoving the turkey at Axel and grabbing for the stuffing. Lucas blows a breath between his lips, all dramatic, but he slides into the seat once they’re on their way back inside. 

“What.” Lucas says, and it’s pretty clear he’s not asking a question he cares about the answer to.

“I wanted to apologize,” Billy starts, and Lucas is already rolling his eyes. “Not because of Max, or Hopper or whoever. What I did, the way I’ve treated you--it’s been shitty. There’s no reason for you to believe that I’m being serious, or that I’m not secretly a racist, or anything like that, and I wouldn’t blame you for brushing me off and thinking I’m a racist forever. It’s what I deserve, probably.

“But what I can tell you is that I care a hell of a lot more about how you treat my sister than the color of your skin. Neil, my old man, he ain’t that way. He cares, a lot. He--actually, has Max ever told you about where we used to live?” Lucas shakes his head no, not seeming particularly interested in what Billy has to say still. That’s fair, really. 

“Where we used to live, we were the only white family on our block, and we were the trashiest people in the whole neighborhood by a long shot. There were a ton of Mexican families, and more than a few Asians and Black people, too, and they were all awesome, and they didn’t deserve to be living in the shitty part of town. They didn’t deserve to be treated like shit by the cops, or have their kids get kicked out of school for nothing when my stupid ass was having a fight a week and staying enrolled, or get their rent raised every three months while ours stayed the same. We were the problem house, the ones who played loud music at three am and had screaming fights and broke out windows and had a yard fulla shit Neil was never gonna fix.

“I knew this, and I know it now, too. But all I’ve ever heard come outta Neil’s mouth is racist bullshit, and if he catches you with Max, or hears that you two are together, he’s gonna do a helluva lot more than shove you against a shelf. 

“It doesn’t mean what I did was an okay thing to do, and I knew it when I did it, but I was scared for Max and scared for me and scared for you, too, a little. But being scared isn’t an excuse for acting like an asshole or being a fuckin’ racist.” 

“Pretty words, asshole, but I __don’t give a shit how many brown people you knew back in Cali, _dude_ ,” Lucas taunts, “Why the hell would I forgive somebody who treated me like shit, even if they know all the right shit to say? You haven’t given me any information, much less any evidence to show me you’re not gonna pull some more racist shit.”

Shit. Okay, he’s right. Billy’s actually thought about this a lot, is ready to take a calculated risk to show Lucas how serious he is about being a better person or whatever. 

“You know, back in Cali I only dated dudes. And if that gets out, I’ll know it’s you who told, but it won’t matter anyways, because I’ll get beat to death in some fuckin’ field or some shit before I could even try to kick your ass for telling my secrets. So now, you have ammunition, it’s like that Cold War missile shit, mutually assured destruction or whatever. If I do anything else racist, you have my permission to tell everybody in town exactly how much of a queer I really am. Is that enough evidence for you?”

“I guess,” Lucas spits after a long pause, his mouth all twisted up. “You know, Max and I being together was illegal in Illinois until nineteen-sixty-seven? And even once the Supreme Court made it legal, there were plenty of places it’d still get me lynched, there probably still are. So as long as you make sure we’re safe and you don’t fucking talk to me about any of this shit ever again, no shovel talk or anything, I’ll keep your fuckin’ secret. But stay the hell away from me and Max’s relationship.” 

He gets out of the car, slams his door. Did Max teach him that? Probably. Honestly, that conversation went about as well as it could have, he thinks. He shrugs to himself as he gets out of the car, stashes a joint in his coat pocket, and goes inside. _God_ , he hopes Steve’s happy to see him. 

 

He’s not. Steve gets this look on his face like his brain’s not getting enough oxygen or something, and he turns away from Billy real quick. Billy realizes Steve’s avoiding him, as much as it’s possible to avoid someone in this shoebox of a house, especially crammed with fuckin’ kids like it is now. He won’t make eye contact, holds himself carefully like he’s--like he’s _scared_ of Billy, he realizes suddenly, and Billy’s stomach drops. 

He thought, from that first argument they’d had, that Steve wasn’t going to be scared of him, that Steve’d be able to go toe-to-toe with him and not flinch. That’s more than Billy deserves, though, honestly, and as shitty as it is to see Steve keep his guard up, avoid looking over his direction, all through dinner and dessert, it’s his penance, he thinks, for hurting Steve. He tries to remember the first time Neil’d hit him, and he thinks he did the same shit--acted all cool at first, then got real scared of the next time it would happen, cowered away until Neil'd beat that fear out of him.

Kali taps him on the shoulder after dessert, makes a meaningful face like _I need some weed if I’m gonna keep myself from killing a child later_. He nods at her, and they heave Axel up from his semi-comatose state on the couch to smoke a joint out back. 

“So, he’s the one you beat the shit out of, right?” she says, no warning or nothing, and he fumbles the joint, drops the lighter on the frozen ground. Axel leans down to grab it, hands it back, as Billy tries fruitlessly to be cool about it. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s--that’s Steve,” he finally chokes out, shaky fingers passing her the joint. 

“He looks fucked up about it,” she says conversationally. 

“Wow, Sherlock, I’m surprised you noticed,” he spits at her all bitter. 

“Okay, listen, motherfucker, I didn’t beat his face in,” she warns, “but what I was gonna say _also_ is that he doesn’t look like he’s straight, and he doesn’t look like he’s gonna be scared of you forever.

“You know when you fall off a skateboard for the first time, and you’re trying to decide if it’s worth it to get back on and try again?” she goes on, and he nods his head, remembering all the bruises Max had carried home, her first day. 

“That’s what he looks like. So go in there, help him remember why the fuck you deserve the time of day, and help him get over his fear.”

“He doesn’t look straight?” he says, suddenly processing the rest of what she said. She rolls her eyes at him, pulls a face like _god, boys are so fucking dumb, I’m so glad I don’t like them_. 

“Not from the way he was lookin’ at you when you came in,” Axel pipes in, finally deciding to give this conversation his attention for a second. “It’s the same way that creepy guy, Jonathan or whatever, looked at Nancy when she bent over to get his plate earlier, like he was hungry for something _other than dessert_. Hey, do you guys think there’s any more of that green bean casserole left?”

Kali rolls her eyes like _what a dumb, stoned idiot_ , and he douses them all in cologne and passes out cigs before they go in, trying to mask the smell enough that none of the kids will notice it. He’s sure Joyce will, but he’s pretty sure she was a big stoner when she was younger, so he’s got an extra joint all ready to give her if she makes a fuss.

The knowing smirk on her face answers the question of if she’ll notice how they smell, but his bluff pays off when she takes the joint between two fingers, winking as she hides it in her pocket. Maybe she and Hopper will smoke it together, he thinks to himself with a smothered laugh, or maybe she’ll finally get the guts to lay one on him after she smokes it by herself. She’s _definitely_ gonna have to make the first actual move, though, he knows that for certain. Kali and Axel are already relaxing into a nap on the couch, so he goes into the kitchen, gets up behind Steve, and asks him to come outside. 

Steve looks good today, in his ivy-league kinda way, which he thinks about while he's waiting. He’s wearing khakis, which you’d have to pay Billy _a lot_ of money to wear, but they make his ass look _great_. He’s wearing this other cashmere sweater, over a button-down like a fuckin’ nerd, but at least the sweater’s just plain dark red, or burgundy or something, probably. He has time to smoke another cigarette, suddenly nervous, and get another joint out of his glovebox before Steve finally comes outside. 

“Well?” he says to Billy, all snippy. “Say your piece, ’s cold out.” He’s wearing a really warm-looking wool coat, but Billy’s pretty sure Steve’s gonna be a little bitch until they’re done with this conversation, so he just taps another cig out of the pack, offers it to Steve. He takes it, quick like Billy’s gonna bite him or some shit, holds his hand out for the lighter. Billy tries to light Steve’s for him, but Steve takes a quick couple steps backwards when he steps in close, so he just passes the lighter over, feeling like shit. 

“I’m sorry. For losing my temper last time, and for what I did to you. Now that I know what the hell was going on that night, I’m glad you were there to stick up for Max, and I feel even shittier that I hit you. You were doing the right thing, like you always do, and I was an asshole, like I usually am.” He takes a long pull off his Newport, reaches into his mind for the other things he wants to say. Steve’s puffing away, almost too far away to hear Billy, but he hasn’t left yet, so that’s good, probably. 

“And I’m real sorry that I made you scared of me, ‘cause I think you’re funny and smart and nice and, like, a good person and shit. There’s probably nothin’ I can do about that, given that you’re scared of me for a good reason, but I swear on my mother’s grave that I’m not ever gonna touch you again unless you want me to, unless you ask me to. I can stay out of you and Hopper’s way, when you’re at the house, keep to myself up in the loft.” Steve smiles for a second, but it’s gone and his face is a mask of anxiety again before Billy can appreciate it. 

Steve doesn’t say anything, for a while, just looks at him, squinting like it’s too bright out or something. He finishes his cigarette, rubs the butt into the ground with the toe of his nice leather shoe. 

“Billy, I’m tired. Of this whole fucking thing, of being afraid of you and the demogorgon and fucking falling asleep, of listening to Nancy shit-talk you like she knows anything about it. Share some of your fucking weed with me so I can go take a damn nap and we’ll call it good enough for now. Ask me before you come up behind me like that again, though, I almost elbowed you straight in the fucking gut.” 

Billy fumbles for the joint in his jacket pocket, sparks it up and passes it to Steve. He smokes about a third of it in huge puffs before he hands it back to Billy, and Billy can see the tension draining from his shoulders. They pass it back and forth, slower, looking out at the sunset. 

“Sorry if I pissed you off, setting the loft up,” Steve says eventually, weed loosening his tongue and stretching his vowels just a little. “It just looked so fucking sad, all in boxes and bags and shit.”

“Nah, it was nice,” Billy says, real earnest. _Friends don’t lie,_ he can hear El saying to him in his mind. “It made it feel like--made me feel like I had a home for the first time in a long time. Made it look like I live there.”

“I’m glad,” Steve sighs on an exhale, passing the roach back to Billy. 

“You know,” Steve whispers, all philosophical and shit, “you deserve nice things, too, you know. It’s okay, to want shit from people, to need people to be nice to you.” Billy doesn’t know what to say. His tongue feels like it weighs about six pounds. 

“Thank you,” Billy he finally gets his shit together long enough to say, and “You deserve people who care about you too, Max said something about you being all alone. You deserve to be cared for, cared about.” Jesus, this weed must be laced with truth serum or something; he just can’t stop talking about all the shit he’s too scared to say, usually. 

“Mmm,” Steve hums, weirdly non-committal. “Hey, did I leave my snowflake sweater at your house? I couldn’t find it this morning.”

“Yeah,” Billy says sheepishly. “It’s in my car, if you want it back.” He goes to grab it, hands it to Steve. 

“You ready for a nap?” he asks, not looking back as he grabs the door. He doesn’t want to see the look on Steve’s face right now, really. He’s afraid it’ll break his heart. 

 

Billy doesn’t look back at Steve before he goes back in, just shoves his way through the front door. Steve can’t tell if Billy’s, like, embarrassed or just super ready for a nap, but it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t wait for Steve, because he just stands there like an idiot for a second, watching Billy walk away. 

It’s like all the fight rushes out of him, when he’s alone. It’s exhausting, being constantly on guard every fucking time he sees Billy, but the conversation they just had--or, the fucking speech Billy just gave him, rather--makes him think that, eventually, he’ll be able to interact with Billy like a normal person again. Billy's voice, husky with emotion, saying _you deserve to be cared for, cared about_ runs through his mind on a loop, right next to _you're funny and nice and smart and a good person_.

He goes to wipe his nose on his sleeve with the hand that’s holding his other sweater, and it smells like _Billy_ , like leather and cigarettes and weed and sweat, a little, and, uh, pine trees or something? Whatever cologne he wears is _so good_ , especially mixed in with the rest of the smells Billy just carries on himself. 

Steve brings it back in the house with him, once he can get himself to stop smelling _his own sweater_ like an idiot, and, mostly because he’s tired and stoned and really ready for a nap, he throws himself down on the only empty patch of carpet, which just so happens to be next to Billy. Whatever, he’s exhausted from the rush of adrenaline burning out of him and the weed. He pillows his head on his arms and the sweater and just passes the fuck out. 

He gets close to waking up, when there’s the _thwump_ of fabric over him; he opens his eyes a crack, sees Kali putting another blanket over Joyce and Hopper where they’re passed out on each other, squished into the armchair. How nice of her, he thinks, and turns his head the other way. The kids are putting on their coats, quietly for once, and Kali puts hers on too, follows them outside to go run around or whatever they’re gonna do. 

She can handle it, Steve decides, and closes his eyes, sinks back into the first restful sleep he’s had in a fucking _month_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!
> 
> I'm not, like, the happiest I've ever been with chapter BUT I do think it did what I needed it to, so. Win some lose some, I guess? I don't have a ton of notes for this chapter, other than that it felt _really_ weird trying to write Billy and Lucas' conversation. If anything from it doesn't ring true, holler at me b/c I don't know that i did it justice. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes:**
> 
>   * The chapter title comes from Laura Branigan's _Gloria_ , which was apparently a gay club banger. It's still a banger, imo. 
>   * I found out today that the Pixies didn't release their first album until 1987, and their best album ( _Doolittle_ , obviously) didn't come out until 1989, so I can't put _Pixies_ in anything plot-related and I'm _SO SAD_ about it.
>   * Another song I got really excited about including and then found out it wasn't released until later: _Anthems for A Seventeen Year Old Girl_ , by Broken Social Scene. Maybe one day I'll write some very good alwaysagirl Harringrove fic using it??? Who knows.
>   * Steve emoting to Dolly while he cooks is literally me. So is Max bringing some _very sad_ drop biscuits to a potluck. (I'm a great baker, but drop biscuits elude me to this day! I've been trying to get them right since I was fifteen!!!)
> 

> 
> **In our next installment (which will probably take a few days, sozza!): Billy starts his new job; there is a Big Gay Misunderstanding; Kali sends some fun mail.**


	7. when you've laid your hands upon me (and told me who you are)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which there are two comings-out, two Very Gay Mixtapes, and quite a few apologies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!!!
> 
> Thank you all _so much_ for the 60 kudos and all the lovely comments. You all make this _such_ a rewarding process, and I love getting to interact with you all. Big ups to all of y'all for sticking with me through this wild ride. See you at the end of the chapter for more notes!!
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING for discussion of the AIDS crisis:** It's back again! Pretty briefly, but there is some discussion of saliva being a vector for transmission of HIV. **IT'S NOT** but the New York Times did suggest that it might be in 1984 and it wasn't disproven with science until 1986 SO.

Billy wakes up, sudden, when Dustin jumps on Steve’s stomach and Steve basically punches Billy in the face. He’s not sure how they got quite so close together when they were asleep, but Steve, curling away from Dustin’s attack, nestles basically against Billy’s side. 

He’s not sure if he should move away or not; he’d lain on the floor, arms slung over his eyes, just resting, for a while next to Steve, not willing to let himself relax enough to doze. He doesn’t pull away, just tries not to stiffen enough for Steve to know he’s awake. If it helps Steve, to have someone this close, he’s not going to risk making him feel all weird about it, just because that someone happens to be Billy, right now.

Steve looks fucking _exhausted_ , and Billy’s pretty sure he’s gonna start carrying around joints to pass to Steve between classes or hide in his coat pockets when Steve’s over talking to Hopper, if it helps him sleep. 

He’s surprised, honestly, that _he_ sleeps as well as he does at Hopper’s. He hasn’t slept until his alarm goes off or someone wakes him up in years, not since Neil moved in to him and his mom’s way back when. Distantly, he remembers reading somewhere that you only sleep well in places you feel safe, with people you feel safe with. It gives him a little hope, maybe, but remembering how fucking tired Steve’d looked all day kinda makes him think Steve would’ve passed out this hard if there were a fucking _demodog_ laying next to him. 

So, anyways, Steve rolls away from him, sits up to harass Henderson, but he’s not nervous, Billy thinks, just having a natural response to some shithead jumping on your vital organs. Kali’s standing at the kitchen counter, looking at Billy like she’s got a lot to say about her day. Her cheeks are still a little flushed with cold, so she and the kids probably just came in. 

“BILLY,” Max bellows, all breathless, from five feet away where she’s taking off her boots, “Kali’s the coolest person you’ve ever been friends with, I think! She showed me how to flip somebody if they grab me! I almost KILLED Will by accident!! It was SO COOL!” 

Jesus, Max is a menace, and he’s pretty sure he’s not excited about Kali and Max being friends or whatever now; they’re both dangerous enough on their own, and from the sparkles of amusement on their faces, they’ve been comparing notes on him. Awesome, another way all the women in his life can team up to bully him into being a better person or whatever. 

“Max, I’m so glad you’re learning exciting new ways to terrorize everyone, but we should probably get ready to go. Hopper said you needed to be home by eight, right?” She’s rolling her eyes already, opening her mouth to protest about it, when Axel cuts her off.

“The hot cocoa’s almost ready though! I had to use a fucking soup pot to make it, with how many of us there are, and if you guys leave now, it’ll be a waste.” Max looks at him, waggling her eyebrows all serious like _there’s a good reason for us to stay_ , and whatever, Billy’s not all that concerned about giving Max any more time with Neil and Susan than is strictly necessary. 

So he waits, sleep still keeping him soft-eyed, until Max brings him a steaming mug. Jonathan and Nancy are awake now too, mostly because Mike’s sitting next to them with El and Will fucking _yelling_ about how gross they are, how _no one wants to see them cuddle_. El takes his hand, though, and he quiets down, blushes. She’s asking Will about art or whatever, and he looks excited about something for once. 

Hopper and Joyce look like they’ve been up for a while, sitting there arguing about the football game or something. They look awful cozy, and he’s definitely gonna have to get the scoop from Hopper on that after Axel and Kali leave town. He knows her boyfriend or whatever, Bob, just died all noble, _for the greater good_ and all that shit, but he thinks they’d be awful cute together. Plus then El’d have someone who knows what the hell they’re talking about to explain what periods are when she gets hers, which would mean that particular responsibility won’t fall on Billy’s shoulders. 

Lucas and Max are in the kitchen with Kali and Axel, ferrying cocoa to everyone. Kali looks like she’s divvying up leftover for the adults to take home; Axel’s mother-henning the pot of cocoa. 

Steve and Dustin are wrestling, kind of, until Joyce finally uses her mom voice to get them to quit before they break something or someone. The kids start planning when they’re gonna have their next Dungeons and Dragons campaign at full volume, _of course_. 

“STEVE! Are you gonna play with us again this time? We need our bard!” Dustin asks, all dramatic, and Steve glances over at Billy, blushes hard.

“ _Maybe_ , kid, but you’ve gotta stop yelling about it if I say yes. I don’t have much street cred left, and if it gets around that I play Dweebs and Dorks with you guys at school, I’ll become a pariah, I’ll actually have to start _hanging out_ with you nerds.” Dustin looks overjoyed, and Steve quickly backpedals. “If you promise, on Mews, that you’re not going to tell anyone who’s not in this room about me and Dungeons and Dragons _in the same sentence_ , much less any details, I’ll do it.” Dustin looks all proud, like that’s what he wanted all along, and it looks very much like Steve’s gotten _had_ , at least from where Billy’s sitting. 

Steve’s got this red patch on his face, a little line on his cheek from where he bunched up his extra sweater to use as a pillow. Billy wants to wrap him up forever, somewhere safe, and just... _touch him_ , nicely, like he deserves to be touched. Then he remembers the way Steve had grimaced away from him, had shrunk back from his hand, holding the lighter, and thinks that he’s probably never gonna get the chance to touch Steve all nice.

He finishes his cocoa in silence, suddenly fucking exhausted. Max is arguing with Lucas and Mike about whether they can have two rogues in the same party (whatever the fuck that means) like a huge fucking nerd. Hopper and Joyce are up now, too, cleaning up or whatever. Billy drags himself up off the floor and goes to help. 

“Hey, Joyce,” he says, taking the dirty mugs she’s carrying from her over to the sink to rinse out, “You think I can start workin’ for real Monday? I told Hutch I would, but I can always tell him I have to do paperwork or somethin’ for the first few days if I need to.”

She tuts at him, makes him stretch and breathe deep to see if his ribs still hurt, makes him rotate his arm all the way to show her his shoulder’s fine, stretches his fingers and moves them all independent of each other. 

“Oh, I wish I had thought to splint this one,” she sighs all worried, looking at his ring finger. It sticks out kinda funny, a little crooked, but he can still bend it mostly, and it doesn’t really hurt that bad unless he has his hand in a fist. 

“Maybe it’ll keep you from fighting, huh?” she smiles, bending it over and over again. “I think you’ll be okay, just don’t lift any cars or anything. Keep your heavy lifting light. You can tell Hutch I said that, too, he’ll laugh.” He nods, bending back to try to crack the spot in his back that always hurts when he sleeps on the floor.

“Also, mister,” she says, suddenly serious, “I’m glad you had enough to share, but I’d better not find out that you’ve been sharing any of _that_ with the young ones.” She nods at her pocket, where she’d stashed the joint he’d passed over earlier. “God knows I did it enough when I was your age, but they’re too young. Their brains are still cooking.”

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls, smiling big at her. She laughs, smacks him on the shoulder. 

“Now go take your sister home, and, oh, would you mind terribly taking Will home on Monday afternoon before you go to work? Jonathan picked up a shift and, even though it’s silly, I just worry when he has to walk home still.” She makes a face like _I know I’m being ridiculous_ , but he gets it. He’s real protective of Max, and she hasn’t even gone missing and been found in an _alternate dimension_ or anything. 

“Nah, that’s fine, I told Hutch I’d be there around 4 to give myself some wiggle room.” She smiles thankfully, gives him a huge mom hug like he hasn’t had in probably _years_ , and sends him on his way. 

“Mad Max, c’mon, we have to get you home before your mom blows a gasket and accuses me of kidnapping you or some shit.” She rolls her eyes at him, but slurps up the last of her cocoa and gets her shoes on. They say their goodbyes, which takes Max _forever_ , unsurprisingly. 

Axel and Kali aren’t leaving till tomorrow, but Max isn’t gonna get to see ‘em before they go, so she has to gush to Kali for about an hour about how cool she is and how much she’s helped Max figure out and all this shit, which, they weren’t outside for that long, were they? God. Max scribbles her phone number on Kali’s forearm with a pen, tells her to call _anytime, literally, except not when I’m at school or after eight or if I’m not home_. Jesus, Max is a mess. 

 

“You apologized to Lucas,” she says, only a little louder than necessary, as soon as they’re in the car. “And you told him about you?”

“Yeah, kinda. I didn’t tell him about why we moved here, though, so keep that shit to yourself, blabbermouth.” She rolls her eyes at him; he shoves at her shoulder with the hand he isn’t using to drive. 

“Of course, Billy, I’m not stupid. Plus, you know how bad that story makes me look.” She’s all moody now, grumpy at being reminded of her stupidity. 

“Well, yeah, but you’ve learned from it. Hey, does this mean you’re not gonna remember you’re mad at me for no reason and start yelling, now?” He’s getting real fucking tired of getting yelled at, halfway through a decent conversation, just because she remembered he did something shitty. 

“I think you’ve showed me you’re trying, and as long as you keep trying, I can’t fault you for it.” Wow, how nice, that she’s decided to pardon him, like she’s the Queen of England or some shit. 

“Doyouforgiveme?” she asks, all in a quiet rush. 

“What?’ he says, before his brain makes sense of her breathless question, “Oh, yeah, obviously, squirt. You did a dumb thing, but so did I. So as long as you forgive me and I forgive you, we’re even, right?” 

“Yeah, but you didn’t get my ass kicked,” she whispers. (Also, he thinks to himself, as he does about once a week, _why_ are her only two volumes horrifically loud and a fucking _whisper_? Where did she learn this from? Her mom’s, like, normal, or at least her speaking voice is.)

“No, but I kicked somebody else’s ass, and it’s somebody who’s ass I wish I hadn’t kicked.” He doesn’t mean to give her any more fucking details about his feelings, or whatever, but she gets this devious fuckin’ look on her face and he realizes he’s fucked. 

“YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON STEVE?!” she shrieks, and he winces reflexively. _God_ she’s got some fuckin’ pipes on her. She should be a WWE announcer or something, honestly. He doesn’t say anything, as if she’s not just gonna draw her own conclusions. She’s a smart kid, especially about Billy. She’s known him the longest out of anyone here, other than Neil, and he’d like to think Neil doesn’t know him quite as well as Neil likes to think. 

“I KNEW IT!” She starts doing this awful little dance, and he just turns up the radio. He legitimately _cannot deal with_ his kid sister thinking she’s smarter than he is, not after the day he’s had. 

 

___________________________

 

Max is having the best Thanksgiving she’s ever had; it’s probably the best Thanksgiving anyone’s _ever_ had, if she’s being honest. 

It was shitty to begin with, yeah, sitting at the kitchen table with her mom all sniffy from crying about burning Thanksgiving and Neil running his mouth about what a queer Billy is, and all this other crap about Billy. It’s funny, she would’ve thought he’d _stop_ talking about Billy, now that Billy isn’t his _fucking_ problem anymore, but it’s like absence makes the heart grow fonder, or the _hate_ grow fonder or something like that. She should really pay more attention in English class, probably.

But since Billy picked her up, all smiley and well-dressed, she’s been having fun. Even if her drop biscuits turned out bad, somehow dry and heavy at the same time, everyone tried one, and she got to try so much weird Midwestern food, white bread stuffing and hashbrown casserole and chess pie. Plus, Billy hadn’t been up her ass about Lucas, for once, and he’d even apologized. 

“You brother said sorry,” Lucas had murmured into the hair near her ear, when they were all trying to watch Ghostbusters without falling asleep. “It was...not, like, the best apology I’ve ever gotten, but it was decent. And now, I’ve got leverage on him, not that I didn’t have it before.”

“HE TOLD YOU?” she’d yelled, on accident. It’s not _her_ fault that she’s _exuberant_ , or whatever her math teacher had told her mom in parent teacher conferences. 

“Chill,” he’d said, grabbing her hand, and she’d blushed, leaned back against him and watched the movie, at least until she’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t even said anything about the little spot of drool on his sleeve where she was using his arm as a pillow. What a gentleman. 

And then, when they’d all woken up and been ready to go fuck around in the sprinkling of snow, which, _why_ did she decide to make friends with kids who all love to go outside when it’s frickin’ _sub-zero?_ , Kali had been the one to go with them, to supervise. 

Dustin had wanted to bring Steve, but he and Billy were napping on the floor, all curled up like they liked each other for once or something. They were old enough to go outside without an adult, Mike had bitched at her, once they’d gotten outside, but she’d just rolled her eyes, said something about spending time with her little sister while she’s visiting, and El had gotten all blushy and happy and Mike had dropped it. 

Max had been taking a break from running around and throwing handfuls of snow, not really even snowballs, at the guys and El. She’d sidled up to Kali, who apparently was cool as shit, according to El at least, and asked how she thought Billy was doing. 

“You don’t need to worry about Billy,” Kali’d said, a little suspicious. “You’re his thing to worry about, you’re younger.” 

“Yeah, but, like, if I don’t who the hell _else_ is going to?” Max had snapped back, a little annoyed. It was true, she was the only family Billy had who worried about him _at all_. 

“You're right, that’s fair, although I think Hopper worries about him some too,” Kali’d sighed, after a minute.

“Is that a pink triangle?” Max’d said, poking at Kali’s collar. She knew it was, and, _unlike Steve_ , she knew who the fucking Nazis were, what they’d done to people like Billy, and, apparently, like Kali. 

“Do you know about your brother?” Kali had snapped, all prickly. When Max just nodded, Kali had sighed, looking for all the world like Billy did when he was jonesing for a cigarette. 

“Yeah, it is, and you brother’s fine. He’s fucked up about some idiot boy--all boys are idiots, you know that, right?--but he’s fine. Hopper’s good to him, and having El to help take care of is good for him, I think.”

“Billy’s _gay_?” Will had interrupted, quiet, from his place suddenly behind them. 

“Yes, but you _can’t tell anyone_ ,” Max’d hissed, already over to him and holding onto his wrist a little too tight. Will’s eyes were really big, with fear or pain or something, probably, but he’d just nodded solemnly, like, _I promise_. Will was definitely probably going to keep his mouth shut, and her hand had hurt for like a week after she and Dustin and Lucas had done that dumb blood pact thing, so she’d just dropped it. 

“You have to be looking for it,” Kali had said, this twinkle in her eye like she thought Max was funny or something. “He’s pretty obvious about it, and if he can just nut up and be nicer and talk to the guy like he’s a _normal person_ I think they’re gonna be just fine.” 

Max had already known _exactly_ who Billy’s been obsessed with for, like, _forever_. She’s been listening to Billy talk about Steve since the first day of school, she knows he’s a little fixated, and he’s been asking about Steve, all casual like she won’t notice, since the night the gate closed. 

She’d thought, at first, that he was just being an asshole, trying to get a rise out of someone new and be top dog, but he’d talked about how Steve was the most handsome boy in school--other than Billy, of course--one too many times for her to pretend Billy was just a social climber. And then after, once he’d fucked up and hurt Steve, he’d asked her all afraid, like he’d felt bad about it. 

Mike had launched a secret offensive to shove snow down her coat while she was thinking about Billy and Steve, but Kali had caught him by the arm right before he’d grabbed the back of her collar. She’d flipped Mike over her shoulders onto his back, left him coughing and staring up at the sky. 

Everyone had laughed, and Max had made Lucas be her sparring partner while Kali taught her how to do it, too. God, Kali was _so cool_ , with her piercings and her eyeliner and her sick self-defense skills. 

When they’d all trooped back in the house, tired and cold, Axel had offered to make hot cocoa with the chocolate he’d found in Hopper’s kitchen cabinet. And if she’d whispered in Lucas’ ear about how cute Steve and Billy were, how they’re made for each other, well, Lucas was good at keeping secrets, usually. 

So now Billy’s taking her home, and she’s glad she doesn’t have to try to remember she’s mad at him anymore. She’s also glad she doesn’t have to pretend she doesn’t know about his big gay crush, now that he’s given her the barest semblance of an excuse to bring it up. She talks about how Steve and Billy are made for each other, how they’re both overprotective worrywarts, and Billy blushes, turns AC/DC up. They yell along to _Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)_ all the way home, and even if Neil’s drunk on the couch when she gets home, nothing can make her Thanksgiving less awesome. 

_______________________________

 

Steve’s trying wrestle Dustin, who’s apparently eaten enough peanut butter cookies to give him fucking _superstrength_ , Jesus, he's like _the Hulk_ , into the backseat when Lucas comes up, all his stuff with him. Billy and Max are already gone, Jonathan and Nancy are yelling Mike’s name to get him out of the house and into the Buick next to Will, and Axel and El and loading up their car with dishes and leftovers while Kali talks to Hopper and Joyce. 

“Hey, Steve, you mind giving me a ride home? I forgot to call my mom earlier and I don’t want Hopper to have to stay any longer than he needs to.” Lucas is always so _thoughtful_ , which makes him and Max an even funnier pair. She’s all impulse, and he’s all forethought. 

“Yeah, no problem, as long as you can coax Dustin into the backseat while I go grab my leftovers.” Kali had made him this huge tupperware, full of food, like she’s worried he’s gonna starve to death or something. He’s still a little worried she’s gonna psychoanalyze him, honestly, so when he goes back inside he shoves Mike out the door and yells out a hasty goodbye as he retreats, food in hand, before she can corner him. 

“Okay, yes, but I bet we can get him to come out, I mean, he and, uh, _the other guy_ would be perfect for each other if they’d just, like be nice to each other for five seconds,” Dustin’s saying as Steve slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car. He’s not sure what they’re talking about; probably some D&D sidequest or something.

“No,” Lucas argues, sounding very certain, “The, uh, _other guy_ is way too nice, he doesn’t deserve to be matched up with someone like _him_.” Lucas sounds disgusted, but not necessarily about whatever (apparently) gay thing they’re talking about, probably about this guy, who’s apparently a huge asshole. 

“They’ve BOTH been hurt,” Dustin interjects, all heated, “And TRAUMA CAN MAKE PEOPLE WHO AREN’T BAD DO DUMB THINGS, RIGHT, STEVE?”

“Uh, I guess, I mean I was an asshole when I painted that thing about Nancy on the movie theater, and I guess you could say that was after trauma?” he says, trying not to wince when he remembers just _how much_ of an ass he’d acted like after he and Nancy’s unofficial breakup or whatever. 

“EXACTLY, that’s my point, is that now Steve’s, like, infinitely less of an asshole, and he used to be the biggest dick in the school, so, uh, _this guy_ can change, can prove that he deserves the other guy’s love.”

“But what if the other guy isn’t into dudes _at all_? He’s dated girls before, so maybe it’s a moot point, maybe it doesn’t even _matter_ how into him this guy is!”

Dustin and Lucas go on arguing in the backseat, and, like, it’s kind of shittier than Steve would’ve expected, to hear them arguing about some guy who probably isn’t even out, who might not even know he’s being talked about.

“Hey,” he goes, finally, after he hears one too many comments about the original guy being _horny_ for the other guy’s _dick_ , which, ew, “I don’t know that I’d be too happy if somebody were talking about my crushes like that, I mean, you might be putting this guy in danger. I sure as fuck hope you guys don’t talk about me that way, when you talk about _my_ big gay crushes.”

Shit. Hopefully the guys’ll just, like, gloss over that. He turns up Tears for Fears and tries to pretend like nothing happened, forgetting momentarily how strong peanut butter and sugar has made Dustin; when Dustin pops up right next to him and yells “YOU’RE GAY TOO?!” he almost fucking jerks the wheel, sends them flying into the fucking ditch.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he curses, “Dustin, _sit the fuck down_ and buckle up before I come back there and _kick your ass_ for putting all of us in danger.” He lets the adrenaline course through him, imagines it running out his fingers like his mom told him to do when he gets anxious. 

“And, no, shithead, I’m not. I’m _bisexual_.” 

“I heard bisexual means you haven’t decided if you’re gonna be gay or not,” Dustin says, and Steve pulls the car over to the shoulder, flicks on his hazards, turns around to look Dustin in the face. 

“Hey, _asshole_ ,” Steve starts, voice probably a little too close to a yell, but he’s too pissed off to care. “That’s a _shitty fucking thing to say_. I loved Nancy and I like--well, _somebody_ ,” he cuts himself off, _thank god_ , “And I’m not just, like, confused about it. I like boys and girls, and if that’s how you’re gonna react when somebody, like, comes out to you, I’m so _disappointed_ in you.”

Steve turns back around to the driver’s seat, and Tears for Fears switches over to Prince, _I Would Die 4 U_ , which is probably a little too on the nose for him right now. He turns off the radio, and they drive the rest of the way to Lucas’ house in this weird, charged silence. As Lucas is getting his dishes out of the car, Steve sighs, feels _really guilty_ for yelling. 

“Hey, Lucas, Dustin, I’m sorry I raised my voice. It’s just--it’s hard enough, dealing with this, and then when you guys sound like you’re making a joke of it, it’s even harder. You guys are my friends, it sucks when you don’t take me seriously just ‘cause I’m a dumbass sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” Dustin says, all quiet, and Steve can tell by the way he’s hiding his face under the brim of his hat that they’re gonna have a nice fun _you hurt my feelings_ talk on the way back to Dustin’s. 

“It was a shitty thing to talk about like that,” agrees Lucas, shoulders squared, and he waves at both of them as he goes in.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Steve yells out the window, trying to get everything back to normal. Lucas waves over his shoulder, but he doesn’t look back. Shit, he fucked that conversation up, probably. He just gets--so upset, about stuff like that, and they’re _good kids_ , they should know better. 

 

“Dustin, I know you’re upset with me,” Steve starts as he heads towards the Hendersons’.

“No,” Dustin says, all bluster, like _I’ve never been upset about anything in my whole life_. Fuckin' drama queen. 

“I know you are, and I’m really sorry I yelled, it’s just really hurtful when you say things like that. What are you upset with me about?” Steve’s trying his best to be patient, knows that Dustin’s approximately twelve times more sensitive than he likes to pretend he is and that he tries to hide it whenever he can. He also knows, though, that Dustin likes to talk about stuff, process it right after it happens. 

“I just--why didn’t you tell me _first?_ ” Dustin says, and, oh. He _knows_ Dustin worries about shit like that, worries about whether Steve really likes him, worries that _nobody_ really likes him. Dustin wipes at his face, real quick, like Steve won’t notice he’s crying if he just deals with it fast enough. 

“It’s not like that, bud, I didn’t wait to tell you until Lucas was in the car or something ridiculous like that. I didn’t even mean to tell you guys _at all_ , it just--slipped out.” That’s all true, and he might have freak out about coming out to them later, when he’s home and he doesn’t have to worry about scaring the kids. 

“Yeah, but you told both of us together and then you _yelled at me_ , and you said you were _disappointed_.” That’s almost _certainly_ the root of the problem there. Dustin doesn’t really care about getting grounded, or yelled at even, probably, but he’s so sensitive about being a disappointment. Steve _gets that_ , but Dustin _did_ say something shitty, so.

“I _am_ disappointed. You’re such a good kid, normally, such a good guy, that when I came out to you and you made fun of me I was really surprised and hurt and disappointed. I expected better from you, you’ve always been so kind.”

“I didn’t _mean_ to say it,” Dustin grumps, and yeah, Steve gets that too. Sometimes Dustin’s mouth starts running before his brain can keep up, sometimes he forgets that you have to be polite and you can’t just yell the first thing that comes into your mind.

“I know, which is why I’ve forgiven you. You just--need to be more sensitive, when people say these things. It’s scary.” Steve feels a little better, now; Dustin’s wiping his face openly now, which is usually the sign that he’s done crying, that he’s okay again. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I just got really excited. You know you’re one of two gay guys I know now?”

“I’m _not gay_ , bud. But no, I didn’t. I’d ask you who the other one is but he’s probably not out, and so I don’t want to know, it’s _not okay_ to tell people someone’s gay without their permission.” 

“Okay, okay, _thank you_ for the lecture, I’ve already got a mom, enough,” Dustin moans, and Steve’s really glad he gets to drop Dustin off and go home to an empty house. 

It’s probably the most excited he’s been to go back to an empty house he’s ever been, honestly; there’s no one there to see him get a little drunk and cry, no one to walk in on him when he’s jerking off with the door open, Billy's name on his lips, no one to watch him fall asleep with his face in the sweater Billy must’ve worn. 

 

________________________

 

When Billy gets home, Kali and Axel are up in his loft, poking around, as if he’s dumb enough to store anything of note in a cop’s house. 

“Hey, assholes, quit snoopin’,” he yells up at them, and a dishtowel comes out of nowhere to smack him in the face. It’s a little damp, and he looks over to where El’s hand-washing dishes, an impish grin on her face like _you’re not supposed to swear_. He throws it back at her, but it falls to the ground in the middle of the entryway. 

Axel and Kali come tumbling down the ladder, crowing about needing a smoke. He nods at the door, and they reconvene in the designated smoking clearing. Once they’re all supplied and puffing away, Kali does that fucking _thing_ again, where she knocks him on his ass with words. 

“That boy’s got a crush on you, you know,” she smiles, and Axel’s smiling too. 

“ _That boy_ is straight as hell, didn’t you see Nancy? She’s, like, the most aggressively girly girl in Hawkins, and he dated her for a year. There’s no way he was just, like, using her as a beard or something. Plus, I accidentally saw her and Jonathan makin’ time a while back, and she looked like she was enjoying it, so I don’t think she was some prude who didn’t expect anything from him,” he drawls, reminding himself _and_ Kali. It’s no good, to crush on a straight boy, and they all fuckin’ know it.

“That’s funny,” she says, all _ohmigod, like, no way!_ “Because I saw what he’s thinking about. There’s fear, yeah, obviously, but he thinks about you more than just about anything else, and it’s not all because he’s afraid. He likes your cologne.”

He’s blushing, which is a _nightmare_. He’s almost too dark to show a blush well, but he’s got enough Irish in him (thanks, mom) to get really blotchy, so even though it’s not bright red like when Max does it, it’s still pretty obvious to most people. 

“It’s nice cologne,” Axel remarks, all calm. “Brut, right? I’m more of a Jovan Musk guy, myself.”

“Yeah right, when’s the last time you even wore cologne, you just like man stink,” Kali teases.

“Whatever, Miss _I Get Wet For Love’s Baby Soft_.” 

“I told you that _in confidence_ ,” Kali hisses, then gets this funny fucking look in her eye. 

“Quit making it look like my fingers are rotting off, it’s not cool to use your powers when I’m right,” Axel says playfully, although the look on his face says the whole rotten fingers thing is more distressing than he’s willing to admit. 

“Oh, hey, do you know Steve’s address?’ Kali asks, all casual. 

“Uh….no?” Billy says after a minute, confused. 

“I promised I’d send him something.” At the look on his face, she coos “Don’t worry, I’ll send you something too, you green-eyed baby,” and pats his cheek a little. “I just know your address already.” 

God, she’s terrifying, he thinks, and pulls his last pre-roll out of his pocket. They get stoned, and El convinces them to put in this weird new movie she rented, _The Secret of NIMH_. It’s probably not the _best_ movie to get stoned watching, but they do anyways, and Hopper just rolls his eyes and laughs about their horrified faces when they find out how the rats got their technology. 

 

On Monday, Billy almost forgets he’s supposed to drop Will off too. Thankfully, he guesses, Max comes racing up, dragging Will behind her. 

“BILLY guess WHAT!” She shrieks at him, and Will manages not to flinch away too hard.

“Get in the car, kid, I’ve got an extra stop to make before I go in to work and I’m not going to be late to my first day, thank you.” She shoves Will into the backseat, throws herself into the front seat like she’s _trying_ to fuck up the upholstery. 

“WILLIAM GUESS WHAT” she yells again, and Will looks shocked at her for a second before he realizes she’s talking to Billy. 

“Oh my god, _what?_ ” he hisses, on the verge of strangling her already; that might be a new speed record. 

“LUCAS ASKED ME TO THE DANCE!!” she screams, and it’s so high-pitched he can hardly understand what she’s saying. It takes him a second to decode her, but when he does, he wants to strangle her a little bit less; he remembers how exciting that shit can be. 

“Ah, nice, Max, but _listen_ , if you don’t quit hollerin’ I’m gonna stop and strap you to the damn roof.” She shoots him a withering glare. “So, tell me all about it I guess, how did he ask?”

“I’ve been learning MORSE CODE at AV club, because the party insists I should know it so we can use it as a SECRET CODE in case of Upside-Down related emergency, and he was helping me practice and he tapped out d-o-y-o-u-w-a-n-t-t-o-g-o-t-o-t-h-e-d-a-n-c-e and I yelled so loud that Mr. Clarke thought someone was DYING.” She’s flushed, happy. He’s glad to see it. 

“I can’t say I’m _surprised_ about the yelling, Max, when was the last time you used your inside voice? Do you even _have_ one?” She punches him, then takes out the Cure tape Billy was tapping along to and puts in the Clash instead. 

“Will LOVES the Clash,” she says, as if it’s some well-known fact, and she starts dancing in her seat to _Rock the Casbah_. Will nods from the back seat, taps his fingers to the beat on the leather interior. 

“Well, I’m glad at least _one_ of your friends has got good taste, I heard Steve humming _Let’s Hear It for the Boy_ earlier, it was so upsetting to know that we’re like, secondary friends or whatever,” he jokes. Sometimes he feels like the only fucking thing he can think about is Steve. It’s a good thing he doesn’t participate much in class anyways; he can’t stop thinking about Steve’s _mouth_ , that little mole he wants to bite at the bottom of his neck, the timbre of Steve’s voice. He’s thinking so much about Steve that he’s just absolutely ignoring Will and Max, but Max is good enough at chattering he doesn’t feel too bad for Will. 

When they get to Max’s house--he doesn’t even really feel bad about seeing the house, now, doesn’t think if it as his anymore--she takes off to go do her hair or something, and Will clambers into the front seat. 

“So, uh, my kid sister says I gotta apologize to you,” he says all awkward, not sure at all how to talk to this quiet kid who doesn’t really seem to have an opinion about him. 

“Oh, uh, no?” Will kind of asks, like he’s not sure, like he’s embarrassed. 

“Nah, I mean I _did_ come in your house and beat up somebody you care about, and I did bleed all over your floor, and Steve did too, so. I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot.” 

And he _does_ , is the thing; from what Max and El and Hopper have told him, Will’s pretty lucky he’s not in some loony bin, driven insane by the shit he’s seen. Sometimes, Will gets this faraway look on his face, the same one that Hopper got when El asked him about the Vietnam War last week, shellshocked or whatever, but mostly he’s like all the rest of the snot-nosed kids he’s found himself carting around, if a little quieter than Dustin and Max, thank god. 

“It’s fine. Can I, uh, ask you a question?” Will asks, and right before he jokes back _you just did, numbskull_ like he would with Max or some of the other kids, Billy stops himself. 

“Yeah, kid, what’s up?” He’s got no idea what Will’s gonna ask; the kid could ask how he feels about Amoeba or the square root of 1936 or what racism is and he wouldn’t be all that surprised, honestly. 

“Uh, did you know anybody...gay in California?” Will whispers, and _oh_. He’s had this conversation before, with some kids who saw him with Elias once and didn’t know how to talk to him about it; hell, _he_ had this conversation with Mark, after about three days of knowing him well enough to know Mark was gay. 

“Yeah, kid, why? There’s nothing wrong with it, if that’s what you’re asking.” He can’t help but wonder why this kid who’s said maybe twenty words to him is asking him, but he’s been there, has wanted to know everything but had no idea how to ask. 

“Yeah, that’s what my mom said about people being gay. I just--I’m afraid to tell _anybody_ about me, even Jonathan. I mean, Jonathan was so mad when Steve hit him, mostly because of the camera but also because Steve called him a...called him a queer. What if he doesn’t love me anymore, when he knows?” _God_ , Will’s making himself so small, so hidden, and Billy’s heart breaks a little.

“One of the best people I’ve _ever known_ is gay. I’m pretty sure he’s one of the only people outside of my family who’s phone number I’ve memorized. It didn’t make a bit of difference that he was gay, I knew I liked him and that he was a good person. You know it doesn’t make you--uh, anyone a bad person, to be gay, right?” He feels like he’s botching this, but when he’d asked Mark about it, so long ago, Mark had just smiled all big and said _if being wrong feels this good, I’ll go to hell happily with all my friends._

“I know, I know. It’s just--scary. I mean, with the AIDS thing they said it can be transmitted through saliva, and--”

“It can’t be. Or, at least, I don’t have AIDS, and I kissed half the boys in LA before I moved.” Well, he thinks to himself with a wince, at least he’s getting better at the whole coming out thing, right? He glances over at Will, who’s chalk white, but has this little smile on his face, too. 

“It’s scary, yeah, and if you ever need them, I have condoms stashed all over the place, so don’t be an idiot and not use them because you’re afraid to buy them or whatever. That’s what they’re telling people to do, out in San Francisco and LA, is use condoms, _all the time,_ even for oral.” 

He feels a lot more like Mark now, giving out safe sex advice to a kid who’s barely even hit puberty, but it had been so much less scary for him, when he had started hooking up, to insist on condoms with Mark's lectures in his head. He’s never felt the difference, been too much of a worry-wart about it to even think about putting his dick _anywhere_ into _anyone_ without a rubber on, so all that shit dudes say about how much better it is with a condom on, he doesn’t really know the difference, doesn't really _care_. 

“Okay,” Will says, eyes still wide, but he’s a lot less scared now, it looks like. “Thank you, I guess, but I don’t plan on using any for the foreseeable future.”

“Sure, but when the time comes, you’ll know where I am. And, kid, I’m gonna give you some advice a much wiser man gave me, once upon a time: never fall in love with a straight boy. You’re gonna ignore it, just like I have, but it’s good advice. Straight boys’ll only ever break your heart.” He’s laughing, ruefully, at himself and the absurdity of being half-in love with someone who doesn’t want you _and_ whose face you just destroyed, as he turns into the Byers’ driveway-thing. 

Will smiles, this sad little thing, and gets out of the car, waves when he gets to the front door. Billy stays until he gets into the house, then books it back across town to the body shop. He’s a lot closer to being late than he’d like to be, honestly, but he’s glad Will felt like telling him. If Will gets a little crush on him, though, he’ll probably just have to _die_ , considering he can’t laugh about it with anyone. 

 

Hutch throws him a pair of coveralls when he walks in the garage. 

“Don’t wanna ruin those nice tight pretty-boy Levis,” Hutch teases, “So get into those and come help me get this oil pan draining, it’s being stubborn as _hell_.” Billy laughs, wants to make a joke about Hutch being a weakling, but--he doesn’t really know Hutch. He’s sure Hutch is fine, is safe enough, all things considered; there’s no way in hell that Hopper’d send him somewhere he would have to be worried about shit like that. 

Hutch is still a new person, though, and he’s trying real hard to be less of an asshole, especially to people he’s just met. So he just goes and gets changed, scopes out the back of the shop where they store all the extra parts and where the radio is on the way back to the garage proper. 

“We gonna be forced to listen to country _all the time_ , or just until somebody puts an ice pick through their own head?” he drawls, unable to help himself, and Hutch laughs, loud and long, from where he’s under a Camry. 

“Once I’ve decided you’re good enough to change oil and replace belts on your own you’ll get a turn to be DJ, bud,” he throws back as he rolls out from under the car. “Okay, deal with this oil pan before I lose my shit and start hitting shit what a wrench down here, cause more damage than I’m here to fix.”

Billy works until 6:15, changing tires and draining oil and fetching and carrying and shit. Hutch sends him off when he turns the neon OPEN sign off and locks the front door, says he can get by closing on his own. 

He likes it, likes working with his hands, really. He likes doing other stuff better, and it’s fucking _hard work_ , which he’s gotten out of practice with since he’s been babying his ribs and hand and shit, but it’s pretty nice. He gets $3.75 an hour, which is a lot better than he’d get working as a checkout guy at the grocery store or something else dumb like that, and Hutch is pretty chill. He’s already talking about getting Billy trained up to do more stuff on cars other than his, which he knows front-to-back, inside and out. 

“Hey, Hutch, is it okay if my kid sister hangs out a few days a week, once I get started? Not in the shop, of course, but she can do her homework in the waiting area or somethin’, if that’s okay with you.” Hutch is under a car again, so he can’t tell what Hutch is thinking. 

“I don’t know how much Hopper told you, but, uh, my old man’s kind of an asshole, so I don’t want her to hafta spend any more time with the sonuva bitch than she’s gotta, you know?” He hates talking about Neil, hates admitting that he’s left his fuckin’ kid sister in a house with a shitstain like Neil, but if that’s what he’s gotta do to get Max another place she feels safe, he’ll do it. 

“Yeah, shit, son, of course. My daughter, Tammy, used to come hang out at the shop all the time when she was in high school, bein’ as we’re so close to the diner and stuff. She got tired of hangin’ out with her old man, decided to go back to school at St. Francis over in Fort Wayne, and now I never see the friggin’ kid. It’ll be nice to have a real kid around, unless your sister’s a shrieker like Tammy used to be, in which case I’ll pretend it’s nice anyways.”

Billy laughs, says thanks, and heads home. Hopper’s left a plate in the oven to stay warm for him, and he’s shoveling hot dish (which is kinda weird, but not that bad) into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in a week when El comes out of her room, giggles at his cheeks full of tater tots and ground beef. 

“There’s a package for you. In the loft,” she says, and that’s weird. He hasn’t called Mark lately, hasn’t caught him up to speed with all the shit he’s done in the last two months or so, and Mark’s the only person who gives enough of a shit to send a package or anything. If he’d sent it to Billy’s old place, Neil would’ve burned it or done something else shitty with it, not passed it along to Hopper. 

He puts his plate down on the stove, climbs up the ladder and throws himself on the bed to grab the package. It’s in a packing envelope, too small for a box really, and there’s no return address. He’s worried, for a second, but then he remembers Kali, patting his cheek patronizingly, _I’ll send you something too_. 

He rips it open, and it’s a tape. The cloying baby powder smell of Love’s Baby Soft explodes out of the package, which is a _nightmare_ ; not only is Hopper gonna be worried he’s had some dumb girl in his bed or something, but his sheets definitely won’t smell like Steve at all anymore, not that they really have for a few weeks, but he could dream about it, right?

He read over the tracklist she’s sent, scrawled onto a piece of paper she must’ve sprayed with that godawful perfume, and laughs. _Kali’s Big Gay Mixtape_ is scrawled at the top, and man her handwriting’s _garbage_. There’s some stuff he’s heard in the clubs back in Cali, _Hot Stuff_ and _Call Me_ and fucking _ABBA_ , for Christ’s sake. He hadn’t realized how much she must like the Cure, or at least how emotional she thinks he is about Steve and other gay things. 

There’s a few in the middle that are kind of insulting, but funny as hell: _Tarzan Boy_ , which she’s circled on the tracklist and written _THIS ONE’S FOR YOU, BUDDY_ next to; _Dancing with Myself_ , which she’s just drawn a little winking smiley face next to, as if he doesn’t know it’s about masturbation; and _Rebel Rebel_ , which she must assume is self-explanatory. At the very end, she’s added this demo, some guys outta Brooklyn apparently, and next to where she’s scrawled “Girls - The Beastie Boys”, she’s written a post-script: _This song’s fucking insulting, but they’re funny as hell_. He puts the tape in his Walkman and does his math homework, listening to Pat Benatar sing about how _we are strong, no one can tell us we’re wrong_.

 

__________________________

 

Steve checks the mail, that day, and mixed in with the bills his dad’s left a checkbook for him to pay is an envelope. When he rips open the side, standing at the kitchen island, he’s smacked in the face by Love’s Baby Soft, which kind of reminds him of Nancy; she’d stopped wearing it after he’d accidentally said she smelled like a baby prostitute, but she’d apparently thought he really liked it until then. Sneezing, he pulls out a tape and a piece of notebook paper, scrawled with song titles, _Kali’s Big Bisexual Mixtape_ at the top. _Fucking Kali,_ he thinks, wondering how she figured it out. Probably all his staring at Billy, but he’d like to think he’s discrete, so she probably just read his thoughts or something. 

Next to _Smalltown Boy_ , she’s scrawled _JUST FOR YOU!!_ ; next to _Your Love_ , she’s written and scratched out something; if he squints and holds the paper up to the light just right, he can see she’s written _don’t break his heart_. What the _hell_ is she talking about? If anyone’s breaking anyone’s heart, _Billy_ is gonna break _his_ , because Billy’s _straight_. He puts the tape into his sound system, though, and makes himself an omelette, full of onions and nice cheese and mushrooms, dancing around. Man, he thinks to himself, Kali must _really_ like The Cure. It’s still nice, though, to get deep into his feelings about Billy while Robert Smith sighs about how he’d _give the world and more_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! And we're getting ready to ramp up into more drama. But first, let's discuss the new promo!!!! So I watched the trailer and I'm SO SO EXCITED for the next season! Although it does seem like it's going to Joss this whole fic, not that this fic is particularly realistic re: canon but STILL. Also, the _literal second_ I saw Billy as a lifeguard I was in absolute _anguish_ that I didn't make Billy work for Parks & Rec because that's such a funny/brilliant thing, like, imagine Billy teaching skateboarding lessons! Or umpiring for baseball, a sport which he has never given even one shit about!! omg it's fine maybe I'll write that next WHATEVER
> 
> **Fun Notes:**
> 
>   * There's [a really fun playlist you should all listen to](https://open.spotify.com/user/nikwarr/playlist/09TkksWAu3UQyhK4jUrWt8?si=ic5EatXqTjqtRyn-H6nYxg) that's in this chapter! It's _very gay_ , and it includes a bunch of songs that were brought to popularity by the LGBTQ+ community. Bless tf up. 
>   * The title of this chapter comes from _Blue Monday_ , by New Order. It's a banger, and fun fact: the reason it's synth is so cool is because it's one note off, because the synth had to be programmed note-by-note.
>   * I've gotten super into researching the beginning of the AIDS crisis as a result of this fic (not that I wasn't already tbh, I'm a public health student). If you're interested in reading more about it, and especially its impact on the people who lived through it, I'd encourage you to read _And The Band Played On_ , by Randy Shilts. It's really good (and _horrifyingly_ sad). 
>   * I spent probably an hour researching what cologne Billy wears (of course) but when it came time to figure out mechanic words, I did literally zero research. Sorry 'bout it.
>   * As someone who, very unfortunately, is not horrified by the smell of Love's Baby Soft, but has been told by _multiple people_ that it makes me smell like a baby prostitute, it's pretty fuckin' strong, and the way they used to market it is _super fucking creepy_. I'm not gonna link it, but if you wanna see it, fair warning that it's pretty weirdly fetishizing of children!
>   * I love D&D, so get excited for me to try really hard not to break D&D rules and also write about it in a way that's not frighteningly boring. We'll see how that works out lmao. And, just for the record: it's a _huge_ pain in the ass to have more than one rogue in the same party, because they inevitably get their feelings hurt. Learn from my mistakes.
> 

> 
> **In the next installment (probably Monday): Billy and Steve try to be nice to each other; there's _another_ mixtape, and the kids storm a castle!**


	8. roll me in designer sheets (I'll never get enough)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which there's lots of sleepy content, Billy makes a drug deal, and Nancy learns the difference between being educated about something and living through it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!! You guys are great as usual, and even though I _meant_ to give myself a few days so I didn't have to write feverishly, I woke up and started writing and here we are, 12K later. See you at the end for fun notes (including songs and visual references, ayyyy!). Also, sorry I didn't get the second mixtape in this chapter--I got carried away and wrote way more than I planned to!
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING for brief discussion of the AIDS Crisis:** There's a super brief mention of the AIDS crisis, but it's slightly more personal that the previous chapter. (Also, if I end up tagging for this again in the next two chapter I'm just gonna make it a story tag; I had _no idea_ that I wanted to write about the AIDS crisis so much.)

Steve’s in his loft, _in his bed_. He’s just sleeping, but he’s _in Billy’s bed_ , and he doesn’t startle when Billy touches him, doesn’t yell or shrink back or lose his shit; when Billy curves an arm around his waist, Steve just rolls over a little, smiles big and loose and easy, and kisses him on the nose, all sleep-soft and warm. 

Billy holds him a little tighter, squeezing, really, just because he can’t help it. Steve’s _here_ , and Billy's being nice to him, and Steve's _letting_ him, and it’s--everything he wanted, really. Steve leans in to kiss him on the mouth, rolling all the way over so they’re chest to chest, and Billy can feel him smiling. He feels like he’s all gooey inside, like if Steve broke him open he’d just be filled with caramel, flowing and warm and _good_. 

Steve’s kissing him in earnest, and Billy can feel Steve hard against him, in contrast to the softness of his stomach. He skims his palm along Steve’s back, pinches Steve’s ass, just a little, just enough to make him squirm and give Billy a heated look. Billy has his mouth on Steve’s neck now, kissing at that mole that drives him fucking _crazy_ , and Steve’s waking up now, eyes bright with laughter and something warmer, something like _affection_. Billy’s making plans, for how _exactly_ he’s going to take Steve apart, make him shake and whine and lose his fucking _mind_ , when Steve opens his mouth.

“Billy,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like his voice. “Billy, it’s time to get up.” It sounds almost like--he sits up quick, immediately awake, staring at where Hopper’s head is poking up into the loft space. Thankfully, he’s under enough blankets that he’s pretty sure Hopper hasn’t seen, well, _anything_. 

“Happy Friday, lazy ass. You’re gonna be late to pick up Max, kid, did you forget to set your alarm or somethin’?” Hopper grumbles, sounding a little tired himself.

“Thanks, Hopper, for wakin’ me up. I’ll be right down.” He’s already reaching over to grab a shirt, the Yes one he bought at the mall the other week, from the teeny little set of drawers Hopper’d brought home a few weeks ago, and Hopper’s already back down the ladder. 

“Just hurry up, kid, you don’t wanna give Max a tardy because you were too busy dreaming about...did I hear Steve’s name?” Billy throws himself back down in bed, wondering if Max’s tardy will get excused because her ride literally died of embarrassment. Probably not, he thinks, wiggling into his second-tightest pair of jeans. He’s wearing his Vans today, white high tops that are really just yellow now, with age and wear. He can’t find a store that sells ‘em around here; maybe he’ll mail in an order or something. 

When he slides down the ladder, El’s making Eggos, one smeared with peanut butter and grape jelly, the other just peanut butter. 

“Hey, Bill, Steve’s coming over later, to talk about that stuff he has for me. What time are you gonna be home?” Hopper yells from the kitchen as Billy’s brushing his teeth, washing his face, fixing his hair, all at lightning speed.

“Uh, around five thirty? I don’t work tonight, but I told Max she could go to the arcade for a while after school. Why, you need me to pick something up for dinner or something?”

“If you could pick up some lettuce or something, salad stuff, that’d be great. Flo sent over chicken enchiladas, but I’m getting worried El’s gonna get a vitamin deficiency if we don’t start eating some fresh veggies.” Billy laughs a little, but makes a mental note to run by the store before he comes home.

El wraps the peanut butter waffle all secure in a paper towel as he’s gathering his books from where he’d left them slung out all over the kitchen table last night. She’s got a travel mug of tea for him all ready; it has the hamburglar on it, which is probably the funniest thing he’s seen all morning. Apparently, the woman at the Goodwill in Fort Wayne who’s got a crush on Hopper and saves him the most ridiculous mugs has branched out. _Amazing_. 

“This one’s for Max,” El says very seriously when he goes to get his breakfast, and apparently Max’s too he guesses. He takes all his stuff, gives El a hug because she’s apparently a little jealous of how affectionate he is with Max or something, even though he almost never does anything but give her half-nelsons and noogies, and goes. 

Kali’s mixtape is in his car, has been playing pretty regularly since he got it. Mostly, he doesn’t want Max to see the name of it, where she’s written it in big Sharpie letters across the front and the back like a heathen; it’s just easier to keep it in the cassette player. 

On his way to Max’s, wailing _now I would do most anything to get you back by my side_ along with Robert Smith, he thinks about Steve, about the dream he’s still having a hard time shaking off. He’s had wet dreams before, obviously, though not nearly as often since he learned how to jerk it in the shower when he was about fourteen, The difference is that usually his sex dreams are general, about no one person so much as about the sensation of sex, the slick of sweat and smooth skin and muscles bunching under his hands, the moans and sighs and music of it. 

It’s kind of weird, having such a specific dream, a dream so rooted in one person, in one place, especially when his dream was so _soft_ , so full of all the shit Billy would never even admit to liking, all the sappy looks and smiles and soft touches he craves, deep down. 

People expect him to be kind of rough, hard and forceful and taking, and so he usually is, at least during sex. It’s not his favorite thing, but boys’ve always looked at him and wanted him to be a little mean, a little cruel, to take for himself and not give a shit about their pleasure. So he pushes his partners up against walls, bites a little harder than his instincts tell him to, throws them around when they’re in bed. He’s never had any complaints, but he’s also never had anybody tell him to slow down, to be _gentle_. He thinks he’d like it.

Max gets in the car, in a huff already, and asks if he would kill Lucas, if she asked him to. He passes over her waffle, and she starts tearing away at it like a hyena or some shit.

“Uh...no?” he replies, unsure if she’s testing him or something. 

“BOYS ARE THE WORST,” she yells suddenly, and oh. 

“I can threaten him, if you really want me to, but, uh, I don’t think it would go over well for anyone. What’d he do, then?” She bares her teeth at him, like _how dare you threaten my boyfriend even if I am mad at him_.

“I can’t BELIEVE you’re taking his side!” she huffs, taking a massive bite of peanut butter waffle.

“Uh, I’m not? I just don’t know what he did, and you and him both have threatened me about getting involved in your guys’ relationship, so I’m trying to respect your boundaries or whatever.” God, she’s so weird, wants him to be this highly evolved pacifist half the time and this shitty caveman, _whose face do I need to bash in_ , the other half.

“OKAY, well he said last night that he thought Mike was right and I can’t be a rogue in the party, just because he was one first, even though we’re playing new characters and I don’t understand Dungeons & Dragons enough to play a magic user but I have to be one anyways and they’re making me be a druid which is probably just because I’m a GIRL and I HAVE TO love nature, right, it’s _such bullshit_ , and when I got made at him HE ASKED IF I WAS ON MY PERIOD.” He only understands about half of what she’s saying about Dungeons and Dragons, which is about 100 percent more than he wishes he understood about it.

“Well, I’m sure you can talk to Mike about it, have him make you a cheat sheet or something, and _are you_ on your period? You seem real emotional, more than usual even.” She punches him, hard, and glares daggers at him for a second before she deflates.

“YES, but that’s NOT THE POINT,” she yells, and he turns down the radio to accommodate for the noise. “He acted like I was being CRAZY, and I’m NOT, I just wanna play a THIEF, and he’s being SELFISH.”

“Kid, how long has he been playing a rogue? Even if it’s not this one, he might just be attached. Do you really wanna come between a nerd and his nerd interest of choice?” She rolls her eyes, but she seems a little more receptive than he would’ve thought, honestly. He tries desperately to remember what exactly he knows about druids, and comes up with what _might_ be the answer, if he’s right, which is not exactly likely.

“Couldn’t you turn into a bear or some shit as a druid, just start eating dudes if they fuck with you?”

“Oh my GOD that’s true I can WILDSHAPE and KILL EVERYBODY, YES.” She chatters the rest of the way to school, talking about her plans for mass destruction or whatever. Fuckin’ nerds. 

“You’re not working Sunday, right?” she asks, right before they pull in the parking lot, “We’re all going to Steve’s house to play, you should come! I mean, you’ll have to, it’ll be a long day and you’re gonna have to be around for El, too, she’s not playing but she wanted to come hang out and be all gross with Mike or whatever.”

“ _Jesus_ , why you gotta volunteer me for shit without telling me? I’m not exactly psyched to spend a whole day with your nerd friends, like, you’re all babies for one and you’re lame, too.” That’s not exactly a lie; he really doesn’t wanna waste a whole Sunday on that shit. 

“Yeah, whatever, you’ll get to spend like ten hours with Steve, plus when Nancy and Jonathan come they usually just do homework or watch movies or whatever, so you can hang out with them!” Max says, as if that’s any kind of enticement. 

“Oh, yeah, I _really_ wanna hang out with creepy Byers and _that bitch_ , god, I already had to watch them make out once.” Whoops, he had forgotten he hadn’t said anything about that, and Max’s eyes get real big. 

“Okay, I’ll go, get out of my car, we’re gonna be late,” he backtracks, getting out of the car and grabbing his bookbag. She hasn’t moved, and she looks like she’s about to start squealing or some shit. 

“Get out of my car before I lock you in it and you don’t get to go say hi to your dumb boyfriend,” he threatens, and starts walking away from the car, quick, hoping she’ll get distracted by one of the brat pack before she can catch up with him. 

 

He gets away from her fine, but in English class, Mrs. Peterson proves herself to be a _literal demon_ when she pairs Nancy and Billy together for this semester’s final project. They’re supposed to re-write a scene from _Long Day’s Journey Into Night_ , this long, sad play about this rich family falling apart because of the mom’s opium addiction and one of the son’s tuberculosis. She tells them to get in pairs, talk about their ideas. 

Nancy looks back at him from her spot right in front, like, _come sit up here_ ; he stares right back at her, raises an eyebrow like _I’m good here, thanks_. She huffs a sigh, just _so put upon_ by having to move, and gathers up all her stuff. She’s wearing this dress today, baby pink, and he laughs to himself, thinking about her little pastel princess ass with Byers’ dark moody artist bullshit he’s got going on. 

“Okay, I don’t like you and you don’t like me but we’re gonna do the best re-write ever, I need an A in this class,” she starts off, all business-like. 

“Alright, I’ll let you do all the work,” he drawls, just to get a rise out of her. When she just glares at him like she wishes she had laser eyes to kill him with, he sighs, rolls his eyes.

“I know you’re smart, Billy, you don’t have to act all dumb just because you think it’s cool. I know you give a shit, too, I heard you talking to Mr. Sharpson about redoing that Spanish test you messed up right after, well, after what happened last month.” She’s smart, but she’s no fuckin’ bluffer, that’s for certain; she just lays all her cards out on the table, doesn’t keep any ammunition back. She’d be _shit_ at poker. 

“Alright, Wheeler, truce.” He sticks out a hand to shake, and she puts her hand in his. She’s got a stronger grip than he would’ve expected. “So, which scene do you wanna do?”

“I think we could do something really good with the scene where the son who has tuberculosis, maybe make it about AIDS? Like, it’s also a disease that’s just scary for so many people right now, and there’s all that stuff about how people are dying alone because their families abandon them.” God, he knows they just settled a truce, but her fuckin’ prim and proper attitude, talking about shit she doesn’t know anything about all big eyed and full of bullshit _concern_ , makes him want to fucking _scream_.

“What the hell would you know about it, Wheeler? I know your parents voted for Reagan, you know he hasn’t said the word AIDS _once_ since he got elected.” He knows he’s prickly, knows he’s getting defensive; he needs to tone it down before she figures anything out. 

“ _Okay_ ,” she laughs a little mean, all surprised or some shit, “I didn’t know you were an AIDS activist there, Billy, but I guess since you’re, well, _you,_ you probably had to worry about that stuff when you were back in Cali, I’m sure you were having _plenty_ of unprotected sex with who knows _what_ kind of girls.”

“Mrs. Peterson,” he asks, raising his hand and talking at the same time like he always does when he participates, “can we have a pass to go to the library, we have some research to do for changing the setting?” Nancy looks shocked at him, that he’s not fighting back or whatever, but if he doesn’t get out of this classroom right now he’s gonna get _real mean_ , real quick, and that’s not how truces work, he’s pretty sure.

Peterson looks dubiously at him, but she must be obsessed with Wheeler like every _other_ fucking teacher in this shithole, because she smiles and writes them a pass. Wheeler follows him out of the classroom, still goggling at him like he’s some kind of new species of animal or something. When he turns the opposite way down the hall, towards the bank of payphones instead of the library, she starts to talk, but he just holds up his hand like _fucking shut up_ and she trails after him. 

He dials Mark’s house number, lets it ring, but Mark’s not home, apparently. He’s pretty sure he still remembers the number for the hotline at Mark’s office, the one Mark had made him memorize before he left, _just in case_. 

“Ward 5B, this is Cliff, do you have a question I can answer over the phone or are you in need of physical assistance? We can send someone to pick you up if you’re within 30 miles of San Francisco and having complications.” The guy on the other end of the phone sounds so nice, so welcoming, and he’s got that San Francisco accent that makes Billy feel automatically at home. 

“Hi, Cliff, is Mark there, Mark Schlafly?” Billy says, already a little calmer. 

“Oh, uh, yeah, he’s with a patient right now. Do you mind holding while I see if he’s free?” When Billy agrees, Cliff puts the phone down. Nancy’s still just staring at him like _what the hell are you doing?_ He ignores her. 

He has to feed the machine a few quarters while they wait; she’s starting to look antsy when finally the other end of the line comes live again. 

“Hello, this is Mark, how can I help you?” Mark says, his voice all professional. Billy laughs a little, and Mark seems to perk up. “Billy, is that _you_ , you _asshole_! I was worried you were dead or something, you never call, you never write, did you find some cute boy to get distracted by over there and forget about me?”

Mark’s tone is mostly joking, but he does sound a little worried, and honestly? That’s fucking _fair_. He hasn’t talked to Mark in like a month and a half, and the last time he’d been pretty drunk, called and asked _why his dad had to hate him so fuckin’ much_. 

“Sorry, Mark, I just got, uh, busy, Not with anyone new, either, before you ask, I ain’t that lucky.” He laughs a little ruefully, a little sad almost really. “Hey, I’m gonna call you later when I get home and catch up, let me know when you’re gonna be home, but would you do me a favor? This spoiled little white girl from _Hawkins, Indiana_ \--” she glares at him, sticking to her guns, “thinks she knows how hard it is to have AIDS, _how hard it must be_ to take care of somebody with AIDS. Could you, uh--”

“Give her a nice little dose of humble pie?” Mark interrupts, already sounding a little fired up. “Yeah. She doesn’t know about you, right? I’ll keep that hush-hush.  
“I’ll be home around noon, our time, I’ve been here since midnight last night. I’ll be sleeping, but I answer my home phone whenever, call me when you get out of school, you dumb, wonderful motherfucker.”

Billy agrees, says a quick goodbye, then hands the phone over to Nancy. She takes it, looking like he’s handing her a rattlesnake, but she listens. Whatever Mark says must be pretty fuckin’ to the point, though, because after less than thirty seconds her eyes are full of tears. 

By the time she says “Okay, thank you, goodbye, I hope you get some rest,” all cowed, a few minutes later, her mascara’s fuckin’ _ruined_. 

“I-I just--it sounds _awful_ ,” she sputters, and he hands her the clean bandana he’s take to carrying around as a handkerchief to wipe her face with; it’s pretty fucking helpful for work, where he gets all gross and sweaty and there are only oil-covered rags to clean off with, and also, as Hopper had said to him when he’d noticed the dirty ones in the laundry, _they help when someone starts cryin’ at ya_. 

“Yeah, I know. Did Mark tell you sometimes he goes to work on Monday morning and one of his coworkers has died since Friday night?” He’s not being nice, he knows, and he feels a little bad, or, well, he feel like he’s _supposed_ to feel bad, really. “It’s not just some sad story on the news or something, it’s not just those guys on the cover of _Newsweek_ holding hands while one of 'em has a fuckin' cold. It’s fucking _serious_.” 

“I know,” she says, quiet, “Or, at least, I do now. I’m sorry I said that thing, about you having to be worried about it. I know you’re smarter than that, especially with a friend like that guy around. He told me to be nice to you, too, said you needed some nice in your life.”

“Well, he talks a lotta shit,” Billy deflects rubbing at the back of his neck, but she grabs his arm, gentle, and goes “I’m sorry, again.” They go to the library, then, looking for another idea, and after a while Billy does kind of feel bad; she’s still sniffling every now and then, still using his bandana. He’s extra glad he doesn’t have to work today, now, since his hanky’s all gross and snotty.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he offers finally, looking up from his copy of the play, “It’s just...I don’t think anyone would take it serious enough, and we have to perform it, you know. I just don’t want to hear people talking about it like it’s some _joke_ or something. It gets me real heated, and I told Hopper I wouldn’t start any more fights.”

“You’re right,” she says after a minute, looking back at him. “It _is_ a good idea, and the other kids _would_ be jackasses about it. So, what else do you wanna do? We could rewrite it into a comedy; it’d be hard, but if we did it right Mrs. Peterson would eat it up.”

He glances at the clock; there’s only, like, fifteen minutes left in the period. 

“Listen, let’s both think about it for a couple days, you’re gonna be at Steve’s on Sunday, right? We can talk about it then. I need a fuckin’ cigarette right now, you can come with me if you want.”

“You’re gonna stay over there _the whole day_?” she asks, a little too loud because she’s surprised, and the librarian shushes them. He starts packing up his books, and she does too. They walk out towards the faulty fire door, near the gym. 

“I’m surprised, I know El and Max have you wrapped around their pinky fingers, but _I_ don’t even like to stay the whole day, especially if it’s not at Steve’s where I can go do something else if I get bored.” 

She says it like she’s offering an olive branch or something, and he kind of appreciates it. He knows she doesn’t like him, and that’s fair; he’s not gonna apologize to her, though, because as far as he can tell, she hasn’t apologized to anyone about all the shit she’s done, hasn’t apologized to Steve for cheating on him and making him the subject of pitying, whispered rumors. But just because he doesn’t like her doesn’t mean he can’t respect her, and she’s probably a good ally to have on his side. 

He taps a cigarette out of his pack, then offers the pack to her out of habit. She pulls one out, and he’s a little surprised. 

“Would’nt’ve pegged you for a smoker, there, you goody-goody,” he says, mostly joking, and passes over his lighter for her to light hers. She stumbles over the first drag, coughs a little, but recovers pretty well, all things considered.

“I used to smoke when I drank, when Steve’n’I would go to parties,” she says, chill. “He likes menthols, too, you know?” He laughs a little, because he does, unfortunately. The warm light of flame from his Zippo lighting Steve’s face all pretty while he sucked on a Newport haunts him sometimes, flickers into his mind at random when he’s doing dishes or trying his damndest to teach El about normal human grammar. 

“Yeah, I know. So you don’t drink anymore, or you don’t smoke anymore?” he asks, making conversation. Trying, a little, to be nice. 

“Neither, really. Jonathan and I got shitfaced the day after the gate closed, but we haven’t exactly been going to many parties lately, and if I wanna do something like that I’d rather smoke weed, honestly, not that I do that too often either.”

“Huh, that’s a little surprising. Not that _Jonathan_ ’s into weed, that fits his whole tortured artist thing real well, but that _you_ like it.” She huffs out a laugh, smiles at him.

“Well, when you’ve seen what we have, you need _something_ , sometimes. Need some way to pretend everything’s okay. Plus,” she adds with a devious smile, “The sex is _so much better_ when you’re both stoned, right?” He’s flabbergasted, but, well…

“Yeah, it’s nice, especially when you know each other’s bodies,” he says lecherously. She laughs at him again, and he’s actually having, like, a surprisingly okay time.

“So how do you know Mark?” she says real casual, like she knows something he doesn’t. 

“He was our next door neighbor, taught me a ton of stuff about music. He’s the reason I’m so much cooler than everybody else in this hick town,” he tries to joke. He’s deflecting, and she’s sharp enough to see it. 

“It would be okay, if you, uh, knew him another way. I mean, you seem really passionate about the whole AIDS thing,” she offers, as if he’s going to come out to someone like _her_ , someone he doesn’t know, someone he doesn’t want to know any of his weaknesses. 

“Are you trying to imply I’m a queer?” he asks, all bluster. He drops the butt of his ciggie, grinds it out under the heel of his shoe. It’s not exactly his favorite word, and it’s hard to say sometimes, so it’s easy to make his voice cold, unfeeling, a little threatening. 

“No, Billy,” she says, real careful, “Just that it would be okay, with me at least, if you were.” He turns and walks back inside without responding, right as the bell’s going. He hopes against hope that his face didn’t show her anything important. 

 

He’s at the store, trying to decide between a bagged salad mix that’s a little wilted and kind of sad and a head of lettuce and carrots and bell peppers to make salads with for a few days this week. He’s decided, starts pulling out bags to put his fresh produce in, when there’s a voice behind him. 

“You, buying vegetables?” Steve says, a little teasing. “I can’t believe you have even passing knowledge of vitamins and their uses in the body.”

“Oh, is that what they’re for?” he jokes, “I thought they were just new home decor, something to put in a bowl and let rot while I paint it or somethin’.”

“I mean, that’s what I do with half the produce I buy,” Steve says, self-deprecating, “Let them rot, I mean. I’m no artist, and I always buy so much more than I need. It’s terrible.”

“They go so fast, when they’re young,” Billy replies nonsensically, and Steve looks at him sideways for a second before he laughs out loud, this huge belly laugh that fills Billy with this fizzy feeling, like he’s poured a whole pack of Pop Rocks into his stomach to bubble and pop. He wants to make Steve laugh _forever_. 

“You sleeping any better?” he says suddenly, apropos of nothing; he has a flash of Steve’s sleep warm skin from his dream earlier, remembers the way his eyes hadn’t been underlined with dark, bruise-y marks of exhaustion in dream world, and he remembers the way Steve had fought wakefulness at Thanksgiving too, had curled against Billy like he could protect Steve from whatever tried to wake him up.

“Uh. Not really.” Steve answers, curt and awkward, and Billy realizes he’s said the wrong thing. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh, make you uncomfortable or whatever,” he says, all awkward. “I just--you said, at Thanksgiving, and--” There’s no way he’s going to let himself say _I was worried_ , or _I worry about you all the time_ , or _I can help you sleep, I bet,_ so he just trails off, looking down at his basket of food. 

“Yeah, I’ve got it mostly under control,” Steve says, all tight and controlled, and “I’m gonna get going, I’ll see you at Hopper’s later, I guess.” He looks distracted, dreamy a little as he wanders away. Billy thinks about stopping him, about saying something stupid like _well, we’ll both be at the arcade in like half an hour to pick up the fuckin’ kids_ , but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to make Steve uncomfortable; he’s promised Steve that much, and he’ll do his best to keep that promise. 

He drives Max home in a fog of thoughts, about Mark and Steve and Nancy. Maybe Jonathan’ll have weed on Sunday, he thinks, and he can try to get Steve to smoke some, sleep a little better or something. 

“Hey, Max, what’s Wheeler’s phone number?” he asks, tapping along to Debbie Harry singing _call me, call me any time_.

“Why?” she asks back, all suspicious.

“I’m gonna call Mike and threaten him,” he says sarcastically, and when she shoots him a look like _fuck off, you asshole_ , he adds “I need to talk to girl Wheeler, we have a project.” She rolls her eyes at him, but scribbles the phone number on the back of his history test anyways. 

“Pick me up Sunday at 9am!” She yells back at him from the front door, and what? That’s so early. 

“WHAT!” he yells, “No one said it was _that_ early!”

“I’ll buy you donuts,” she hollers back, and that’s an adequate bribe, probably. He flips her off and speeds out of the neighborhood. He’s gonna be late for dinner if he’s not careful. 

 

Hopper’s just pulling the chicken enchiladas out of the oven, bubbling with cheese and smelling awesome, when he comes in the door, backpack and jacket and travel mug and keys and groceries in his arms. He drops everything on the kitchen table, then readjusts and hangs up his jacket and keys, throws his backpack up into the loft. 

He’s chopping up bell peppers, flicking the little seeds at El where she’s ripping up lettuce leaves into the big mixing bowl they’re using for salad, when Steve comes in, cheeks red with cold. 

“Sorry I’m late, Hopper, Dustin was having a crisis about that stupid dance,” he complains, hanging up his jacket and kicking off his boat shoes. ( _Really_ , Steve? Billy thinks. _Boat shoes?_ In _December?_ ) Hopper makes a grumble like _it’s okay_ and waves his hand. He’s reading something in the paper, probably the hockey standings or something. Billy gets himself a plate of food, bullies El into taking a huge scoop of salad, and starts to climb up into the loft. 

“Billy, you’re not gonna eat down here with us?” Hopper asks, all innocent. “We’re gonna watch _Jeopardy!_ ” El’s looking at him with those big eyes like _please come sit with us, I'm a sad lonely adopted kid too_ , and, rolling his eyes, he climbs back down. 

Steve is _terrible_ at _Jeopardy!_ , Billy’s delighted to find out. He doesn’t know a lot of the clues, which is fine, that shit’s not important anyways, but Steve is even worse than Billy at remembering to phrase the answers he does know (or thinks he knows, really) as questions. El is crying with laughter by the time Steve shouts “A CASSETTE” for the clue “you can put it in your eight-track.” 

Steve shoots him a betrayed look when Billy cleans up with a smooth “What is tape cartridge?” and El literally has to go drink some cold water to stop her hiccups of laughter. Hopper’s laughing too, a little quieter, like he knows Steve’s pride is wounded. He starts muttering the answers just loud enough so Steve can hear him, just to make the playing field even.

After dinner, Billy offers to do dishes, and El volunteers Steve to dry. They don’t talk, really, as they work; Billy’s still afraid to make Steve uncomfortable again, and Steve looks like he can’t find any words to say. Once they’re done, Billy takes the phone into Hopper’s room, calls Mark to catch him up to speed on what’s been going on. Mark laughs so hard Billy thinks about hanging up when he says he’s in love with a straight boy, but hearing him sound happy for once, when he’s sounded exhausted and stressed and _sad_ every time they’ve talked for the last six months or so, is worth it. He promises to call more often, then tries to decode Max’s handwriting to call Wheeler. 

“Hello, Wheeler residence,” Mrs. Wheeler answers the phone, and Billy turns up the charm to eleven. (Hah, Eleven.)

“Well, as I live and breathe, Mrs. Wheeler, you sound _even better_ over the phone. It’s Billy, Billy Hargrove, we met about a month ago?” She giggles like a schoolgirl, which is pretty fucking gross but also hysterical. 

“Oh, yes, how could I forget a nice young man like you?” she simpers, and he rolls his eyes a little. A man he might be. Nice? _Absolutely_ not.

“Well, thank you for the compliment from such a lovely woman, it means a lot,” he says all nice, “Nancy and I are in a class together, and we have a project I had a question about. Is she available by chance?”

“Oh, let me double check and see!” she exclaims, and a few minutes later, Nancy picks up the phone. 

“Billy? Is everything okay?” she asks, sounding worried. 

“Yeah, I had a question, but it’s not about school or anything, everything’s okay,” he says, then lowers his voice until it’s just above a whisper. “Does Jonathan have weed, or a good way to get it? I just ran out of the last of the stuff I brought with me from Cali, and I don’t really want to have to buy from Tommy.”

“Oh, yeah, I can call and double check, but I think he knows someone? I’ll make sure we bring some, uh, _records_ we can use for our project.” Jesus, she’s an awful liar. 

“Thanks. Steve smokes weed too, right?” Just because he’d smoked at Thanksgiving, stressed and tired and overwhelmed, doesn’t mean he does other times. Maybe it fucks with him, or maybe he doesn’t actually like being stoned or something.

“...yeah,” she says, after this weird pause. “Why?”

“Uh, I was just wondering, it’s polite to get the host stoned, you know!” he says defensively, flustered. “Okay, I’ve gotta go, bye.” 

He hangs up quick, climbs up to the loft, starts highlighting passages in his copy of _Long Day’s Journey Into Night_ while he listens to the ZZ Top album Hopper gave him the other day. He can hear Steve and Hopper talking about stuff, spread out at the kitchen table, but El’s nowhere to be found, and he can hear Duran Duran coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom, louder than usual, _lipstick cherry all over the lens as she’s falling_. 

He wishes she didn’t like shitty pop music so much, but when she hasn’t been exposed to anything but classical, the country and blues Hopper prefers, and pop, he can’t expect her to have great taste just yet. Hell, he _knows_ Max still listens to Madonna, and he’s been trying to train that garbage out of her for _three years_. 

Billy falls asleep early, lulled by the murmur of voices below him, at like _nine fifteen_. Work’s been taking a lot out of him physically, and with the hours he’s been picking up, keeping his grades where he wants them (namely, higher than Prissy Miss Wheeler’s) means he has to sacrifice a little sleep during the week. He doesn’t go in until noon tomorrow, so he can sleep in a little, thank God. 

 

________________

 

Steve just--doesn’t know what to do with himself, where Billy’s concerned. He almost has a normal conversation with the guy, for once, where they aren’t being mean, and then Billy asks if he’s sleeping okay, in this voice that says _I care about the answer_ , and, well. He’s not, and he doesn’t know what to do with the idea that Billy might _care_ that he’s not, might care about Steve _at all_. 

He’s probably just being polite, probably just asking because he sees the dark smudges under his eyes, the pallor of his skin. He’s been having nightmares, like, every night; he tried to go into the pool the other day, to prove to himself he’s not a pussy, which was probably the stupidest decision he’s made in a while. Getting out of the pool, covered in warm water that had chilled him down to the bone instantly, with the weather so cold, only made it worse, only made his weird fear of his own pool more vivid. He’s been having dreams about Barb too, trying to find her in the tunnels and finding Billy instead, a raging Billy who’s there to kick his ass. The combination nightmares, where all his fears seem like they’ve been put in a blender and thrown at him, are the worst ones; he can’t sleep for _hours_ , sometimes, after he wakes up from one. 

Being alone in his house doesn’t make it any better; he wanders around in his pretty, silent house, turning on lights at four am like _that’s_ a normal thing to do. He just can’t bear the thought of being stuck in the dark, unable to see some threat hiding in the corner. 

So yeah, he’s been sleeping like shit. It means he’s gotten to do a lot of work for Hopper though; he’s found another four articles in the medical journals he ordered that either have Brenner’s name or his _stink_ on them. 

He’s getting better at understanding what they say, about the _implications_ of the research he’s found, of the opinion piece by M.L.B. about how if a child is unwanted by their biological parent or is _special_ in some way that can be used for the greater good, they should be eligible for use in human research, in drug testing or genetic testing or all kinds of other shit. That article made him vomit the other day, reading about how Brenner thought of--thinks of?--innocent _children_. He’s never killed another person, just the demodogs and that fucking demogorgon, but he thinks he could probably kill Brenner without feeling bad about it. He probably wouldn’t even have nightmares.

 

He goes to pick the kids up from the arcade, but Lucas is having a sleepover at Will’s and Jonathan’s coming to pick them up at six, so he just takes Mike and Dustin home; he waves to Nancy when he sees her in her bedroom window, working on homework probably. 

“Steve,” Dustin asks, turning down the mixtape he’s been playing non-stop since he got it, “do you think I’m unlovable?” _Oh boy_ , Steve thinks, summoning his inner reserve of dudely wisdom. 

“Who told you that?” he responds, trying to suss if Dustin needs friend advice or girl advice. 

“Well, no one, but I asked Christie to the dance and she said no, that she wanted to go with all her friends, and then I found out after school that Greg Jacobs asked her and _she said yes_.”

“Okay, dude, I’m gonna get real honest with you for a second, okay?” Steve says, not mean but firm. “Christie, and that other girl you were trying to flirt with? Those girls might be popular, might be the prettiest girls in your grade or whatever, but they aren’t usually _nice_. You need someone nice, someone who _cares_ about shit.

“All you do is care about other people, and it’s not a bad thing _at all_ ,” he stresses, “But you need someone who cares about _you_. Someone who’s willing to listen to you talk about space and D’n’D and Mews and all the other stuff you’re interested in. Someone who thinks about how you feel, not just what you wear or what you look like or who your friends are.” Dustin’s nodding along, like, _yeah yeah, I’m unlovable, you don’t have to be nice about it,_ which is gonna have to stop eventually if the kid’s _ever_ gonna ask a girl out successfully.

“You know that Clementine girl?” he asks, and Dustin looks at him, confused. 

“The one who’s in my math and history classes?” he says, and when Steve nods, “Yeah, why?”

“She looks at you, like, _all the time_. Wasn’t she just talking to you about the Challenger mission the other day, the one with all those extra cosmonauts or whatever?”

“Well, _astronauts_ ,” Dustin starts, but Steve cuts him off before he can really get going. 

“Yeah, yeah, astronauts, whatever, _my point is_ that she went out of her way to talk to you about something she knows you’re interested in. When someone does that, they like you, even if it’s just as a friend. She’s pretty cute, too, right?” he says, feeling like a fucking _creep_ for thinking that way about a freshman. 

“Yeah, I mean, she only ever wears her hair in that long ponytail and her glasses are pretty thick, but she’s cute I guess,” Dustin says, really thinking about it. 

“I bet she’d go with you if you asked, even if it’s only as a friend.”

“So you don’t think I’m unlovable?” Dustin asks again after a minute.

“Bud, listen. I like you so much I let you _drag my concussed ass into a fucking scary hell tunnel under Hawkins_. I like you so much I _fought a demogorgon_. Like, I love you, _not in a gay way_ ,” he hazards, as Dustin gets that fuckin look on his face, that _please don’t hit on me_ face that drives Steve up the fucking wall, “But like I would love a little brother, if I had one. Your mom loves you, and I bet, even if they won’t say it, all the other shitheads love you too, so no, I don’t think you’re unlovable. I think you’re trying to be loved by girls who don’t deserve you, dude.”

Dustin looks satisfied with that, thank god, and he gets out of the car. It’s been parked at Dustin’s house for a while, so that Steve could look at him while he said all that mushy shit.

“And hey,” he yells out the window, “you tell anyone I said any of that and I’ll give you a wedgie that’ll keep you from makin’ any babies with your hot wife later on!”

 

Billy’s fucking around, teasing El by flicking food at her, when he gets to Hopper’s. It’s funny, how quickly El had warmed up to Billy. They’ve probably bonded over having shitty, abusive father figures or something tragic like that, but _still_. El lets Billy ruffle her hair, lets him joke about her and Mike and only uses her powers to inconvenience him when he’s being a dick. 

The first, like, _six months_ Hopper’d sent Steve over to his house, waffles in hand, to babysit, she’d shut herself in her room and only come out to pee, make herself food, and glare at him menacingly. Once, when he’d forgotten to bring the good chocolate chip Eggos, she’d levitated his backpack up into the rafters and hadn’t given it back until Hopper had gotten home and threatened to take away her radio. 

She’s talking better already too, and from what he can tell, Billy’s been working with her on stuff a lot. Mike says he gives her, like, assignments and shit, has a whole _curriculum_ for her so she can get on track to start school in the fall. It’s crazy, seeing how much Billy does for her, how much he cares, how wrapped around her little finger he is. He even puts up with _Mike_ , who’s been increasingly shitty and annoying as puberty hits him, quick to argue about _literally anything_. 

Billy makes like he’s gonna go eat in his room, and Steve’s face falls. He doesn’t want to force Billy to be around him, if Billy doesn’t want to, but it almost feels like they could be friends, if they stopped stepping on each other’s toes. Hopper sees it, apparently, because he calls over to Billy and they all watch _Jeopardy!_ together. Steve _hates Jeopardy!_ , can’t remember the rules about questions and doesn’t know anything they ask about. Billy’s fucking good at it, though, knows way more of the answers than he would’ve expected, even knowing that Billy’s smart. 

Hopper poaches answers off Billy, when he fucks up the question thing, so he’s technically the champion of the household, but Billy’s coming up on him in wins now, or so El explains to him. Steve keeps fucking all of it up, keeps saying the answers in a statement or the wrong answers or, worst of all, saying the wrong answer as a statement. El laughs herself absolutely _sick_ , and Hop’s snickering at him too, but he doesn’t think they’re doing it to be mean. El makes sure to say nice things to him, about how everyone has different strengths and _Jeopardy!_ ’s just some dumb game show, not real life, when she’s calmed down; Billy starts whispering the answers under his breath, loud enough for Steve to hear, before he says them out loud, so Steve feels a little better. He even gets one right that stumps Hopper (“what is _Rocky III?_ ”), and it’s the daily double, too. 

After they finish eating, he and Billy do the dishes. It’s nice, standing next to Billy, doing something productive, except--they don’t talk. Billy looks nervous, looks the way Steve used to feel when he was hanging out with Nancy and her mom, like he’s not sure what to say or where to put his arms. Steve just--can’t think of anything to say, nothing that’s nice and also an okay thing to say in front of El and Hopper. 

“El, you’ve gotta go into your room for a while, you can play your horrible Duran Duran record if you want even, we’ve got some upsetting stuff to talk about out here,” Hopper says, and El rolls her eyes and tries to stall by going pee and getting a snack, even though they _just_ ate dinner like, an hour ago, but finally she listens. The way Hopper talks to El, explains why he asks her to do stuff, what’s the benefit behind it, is really smart, really good for her specifically, he figures.

Billy’s in the other room, on the phone, but he pauses when El goes in to use the bathroom, doesn’t start talking again until she shuts the bedroom door behind her. Steve’s burning up with curiosity about who’s making him _laugh_ like that, who gets to hear the rumble of Billy’s voice as he jokes around, teases them. Probably it’s some girl, Suzette or some other bitch who can give him what he wants, who’ll expect to wear his jacket, who’ll get drunk at parties with him, who’ll give him head in that weird, tentative way girls here do, like they’re afraid it’s gonna _bite them_ or something. 

His jealousy isn’t realistic, and it certainly isn’t going to help Hopper find Brenner, so he tries to push it back into the box his brain’s made for all his Billy thoughts. He focuses on explaining the articles that have Brenner’s name on them, gives his reasoning for why he thinks the other ones are related to Brenner. Eventually, Billy comes out of Hopper’s room, climbs up to the loft. He turns on some rock-country-album thing, something Hopper clearly knows by the way he taps his pen with the beat, _she don’t love me, she love my automobile, but she would do anything jus’ to slide behind the wheel_. 

“You’ve done good work, son,” Hopper says, when he’s done explaining all the evidence he’s collected over the last month or so. “You should think about studying something like this, in college.”

“Why are we looking into him, anyways? He’s dead, right, so why would he be publishing stuff or in the news or anything?” Steve asks, even though he knows the answer, even though it sits in his gut like a lead weight, spinning his stomach acid into a froth of anxiety. It’s better to face this, he thinks, than to think about college, whether he can even get in with grades and writing skills like his (which is to say: piss poor). 

“I don’t think he is,” Hopper sighs, grimacing. “El’s had some dreams where she sees him, in the Blank Space, and he’s actively looking for her, for where she is. We’re not sure how, if there’s another person, kid or whatever, who can do what El can or if he’s figured out how to do it himself. 

“When Kali was here, she said he’d been trying to find her too. I had to give her this long-ass lecture, before they left, about how she can’t show him where she is, because even though she wants nothing more than to kill him herself, she’s gonna need backup. I made her promise me she’d give us three more months to figure it out, but we’ll see if she actually listens.”

Hopper goes into his room, where Steve knows he keeps the gun safe, and comes back a minute later with this big ass extendo-file thing, like an adult Trapper Keeper. He takes the copies of articles Steve’d brought him and files them, clearly following some system. 

“Go through that with me?” Steve asks. It’s only, like, eight, and he knows Hopper doesn’t sleep as much as he should either, so it’s probably fine that he’s trying to delay going home to haunt his empty house with all this. Plus, he’s really interested in getting any more information that he can about this; it’s like he’s started the puzzle from the middle, working his way out, and he needs as much information as he can get to fill out the edges and gaps he’s missing right now. 

When they finally get through everything Hopper’s willing to tell him now (“I’ve gotta give you some reason to come back and help me, don’t I?” he laughs), it’s a little after ten. El had turned off her music around nine, and cute little snores are coming through her door every so often, making Hopper smile all gooey. 

“I’m gonna let you go to bed, then, Hopper,” Steve says, standing up and clapping Hopper on the shoulder. 

“You not tired then, kid?” Hopper asks, trying to hide a yawn. 

“Nah, I’m not getting much sleep these days.” There’s no point in lying about it; he’s _exhausted_ , all the time, but it’s like he lays down to sleep and is paralyzed by fear. He has to just go until he drops into sleep with sheer physical exhaustion. The other night, he’d woken himself up screaming from the carpet of the den, vacuum still plugged into the wall behind him. 

“Nightmares?” Hop says knowingly, and when Steve nods, he adds, “I shoulda guessed, with how tired you were at Thanksgiving. Don’t start takin’ Valiums or anything, son, those things’ll get you and you’ll never be able to sleep without ‘em again. Bud’s not bad for it, although I wouldn’t know where you would get bud and I would _never_ , as an officer of the law, encourage you to do illegal drugs, of course.” He winks, and Steve laughs a little, surprised. 

“Helps the most to be somewhere you feel safe, but I get that your house ain’t exactly safe for you right now. Maybe invite somebody you trust, somebody who’s a safe person, to stay over?” Hop looks innocent as hell, which means he’s up to something, but Steve’s not sure exactly what he’s suggesting. 

“Maybe,” Steve says, “but it’s not like Dustin’s mom’s just gonna move all their shit into my house, and I don’t think my parents would like it, the two days a month they’re home.” He’s joking, mostly, but Hopper just smiles at him, kinda sad, and gives him a hug. 

While Steve’s putting his coat on, Hopper gets him a huge tupperware of chicken enchiladas and a smaller one of what he explains are oatmeal peanut butter cookies Billy and El made the other day. 

“You know you’re welcome here anytime, son, with or without an invitation. With all the fuckin’ trauma in this house, it’s a good week if we don’t have somebody up half the night with trauma or nightmares or whatever else keeps a person up every fuckin' night. There’s a key taped under the third step of the porch, and knock _shave and a haircut_ before you come in so one of us doesn’t kill you by accident.”

“Thanks, Hop,” he says, and means it. It’s the first time Hopper’s told him about the spare key, and he’s probably one of the only people who doesn’t live here who knows about it.

“You wanna go say bye to Billy before you go?” Hop offers, turning around to put stuff back in the fridge.

Steve clambers up the ladder, but when he pokes his head up, he sees Billy, passed out, mouth open. It’s sweet, honestly, makes him want to climb the rest of the way up and nap with him. It had been so _nice_ , having another body next to him during their big weird Thanksgiving nap. Billy puts off heat like crazy, _all the time_ , and when he sleeps he’s like a furnace, basically. 

Steve had been sweating a little when he’d woken up by Dusin’s stupid ass jumping on him, and the moment of contact he’d had with Billy’s side was like a brand, almost, burning deep into him. He’d slept okay that night, too, managed almost two hours more than his usual four and a half before the nightmares had woken him for good. The smell of Billy on his sweater helped some, he’d figured out, and he’d nearly cried with exhaustion when Shawna, the lady who comes to clean the house and stock the fridge and stuff, had sent it for dry cleaning a week later when she found it crumpled up in his sheets. 

Billy looks so peaceful, like he’d never hurt anyone, all curled up like a comma. He’s only halfway under his quilt, and Steve has to fight the urge to crawl up and tuck Billy in like he’s a kid or something. He’s _beautiful_ , though, like the marble statues Steve saw with his parents in Italy last summer come to life, this perfect specimen of humanity. His tight black little boxer briefs are riding up one thigh, showing off his birthmark, and Steve’s mouth goes dry. He _wants_ , so bad, but that’s not how life works. Billy’s straight, and he’s gonna find some horrible girl to have missionary sex with for the rest of his life or something. 

So Steve takes one last long look, climbs back down, and goes to his car. It’s _cold_ , and he thinks about how _warm_ it must be, up in Billy’s little nest of a room, all pressed against him. He figures he can use all the time he won’t spend sleeping getting the house ready for Sunday, for a herd of angsty teens to take over his den and drip ice cream all over the kitchen floor and fuck up his bathroom. He hopes none of them will want to get in the pool. 

 

On Sunday morning, Dustin comes over and starts banging on the door and ringing the doorbell and yelling his name at _eight thirty_. He knows Steve’s room is right over the front entryway and that Steve hears everything that echoes through the foyer. If Steve were actually asleep, not just lying in his bed thinking about maybe jerking off, he would be mad. Since he isn’t, he just opens his window and yells “Fuck off, numbnuts” down at Dustin’s dumb hat. 

Steve takes his time coming downstairs, puts on a pair of sweats but doesn’t bother with a shirt. He turns the oven on to preheat, so he can bake the cinnamon rolls he picked up yesterday in town, and pours water into the coffee machine to percolate. Finally, he unlocks the front door, where Dustin’s been pounding on it for the last five minutes, yelling about what a dick Steve is, as if he doesn’t know there’s a spare key hidden in a fake rock under the hydrangea bush.

“What’s up, dude?” Steve asks, as if he doesn’t know why Dustin’s here. 

“What’s UP, DUDE?” Dustin starts up, before he realizes Steve’s fucking with him. “OHMYGOD, Steve, don’t scare me like that! You have your character all ready, right? I know it’s kind of a stretch, saying you’re our party’s fighter, but it’s not really. You might not be the strongest, but you have fought some monsters with a friggin’ baseball bat of nails, so…”

Steve’s trying to decide if he’s mad or not when Mike and Lucas let themselves in. 

“Nancy’s coming in, she wanted to let you know in case you were naked!” Mike yells, and Steve goes upstairs to put on a soft old t-shirt he’s washed a thousand times. He’s no Billy, he guesses, thinking about the ridges of muscle _all over_ Billy, but he’s strong enough. He wouldn't put on a t-shirt, if they were still dating, but since they are, and since Max and El will be here later, it's just polite, he figures. He decides he probably _is_ mad at Dustin for that crack, but not mad enough to say anything, and he lets it go before he even gets back downstairs. 

“What part of _don’t get here until nine fifteen_ do you guys not understand?” he complains as he comes back downstairs and sees Jonathan, Nancy, Mike, Dustin, Lucas, and Will all throwing overnight bags of shit and backpacks and whatever else they’ve decided they’re gonna need to make it through this monster campaign into the sunken-floor den

As Mike is trying to convince Jonathan to help him and the rest of the kids move the big coffee table down from the formal sitting room, the oven beeps. He goes to put in the cinnamon rolls, and Nancy follows him. 

 

“How are you doing, Steve? Are you ready for Billy to be in your house all day?” she asks him, kind of teasing, but he’s honestly forgotten Billy might be here today, _fuck_. Having Billy here, watching him be a huge nerd and forget which dice are which and _being in his house_ , where he could jump in the pool or snoop through Steve’s shit or--well, _anything,_ really--it’s terrifying, a little bit. He needs more coffee. 

“Uh, is he coming today?” Steve says, trying for nonchalance. Nancy looks at him from where she’s leaning over the counter like _really? You’re gonna try that approach?_

“Yeah, Steve, he’s gonna be here _all day_. I guess he told Max and Hopper and El he’d stay, or probably Max told him that’s what he was doing and he didn’t argue.”

“Should I go _change_?” he asks inanely, pulling at his t-shirt. She’s in leggings and a big ugly sweater, and everyone else is in basically their pyjamas, but he wants to look nice if Billy’s gonna look nice, wants to _show off_ for Billy a little bit. 

“God, no,” she sighs dramatically, grabbing the back of his shirt to keep him from hiding upstairs until he figures out what to wear or until Billy leaves. “Just, like, take a chill pill. He asked about you, on Friday.”

“WHAT?’ he yells by accident, choking on a huge gulp of _very fucking hot_ coffee. She laughs at him while he struggles not to die, having this huge coughing fit from where he breathed in half a cup of boiling Folgers. She’s a cruel mistress, he thinks as his breathing regulates. They’re sitting there at the counter, talking about school and how funny it is that Lucas and Max seem, like, _really happy_ together even though they’re basically exact opposites, when the doorbell rings and the timer for the cinnamon rolls goes off. 

“I’ll get the cinnamon rolls out and ice ‘em,” Nancy says as she jumps up and guns it for the oven. “You go get the door, _dear._ ” He could kill her. 

“THE PARTY CAN START,” Max yells, and it’s like she can increase her volume at will, based on the size of the space she’s in. She _echoes_. It’s astounding. She pulls El into the house, presumably towards the den. Billy’s standing there, shellshocked by Max, and he looks _so good_ , like he rolled out of bed to come here and didn’t give _one solitary fuck_ about how he looked. 

He’s in this cool t-shirt, probably Steve’s favorite of his t-shirts if he’s honest, this super soft-looking t-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s more grey than black with a set of shapes playing instruments, _the violent femmes_ written underneath. It just makes Billy look so _touchable_. He’s in his leather jacket, which, the boy needs a better coat for christ’s sake, he’s gonna catch _pneumonia_ , and a grey pair of sweatpants. Steve’s already looked for too long probably, is blocking Billy’s way into the house, but he’s _pretty sure_ he can see the outline of Billy’s _dick_ , soft and vulnerable, and he genuinely might die before this day is over. 

“Coffee?” he says finally, like an idiot. 

“No thanks, it makes me too wired. El made me tea though,” he smiles, holding up this stupid McDonald’s travel mug with the Hamburglar on it. “You mind if I come in? I, uh, couldn’t sleep great last night, so I was planning on taking a nap once I can get out of Max’s blast radius.” Steve stands aside, still a little speechless at Billy’s glory, and Billy comes inside, carrying five huge bags of shit like they weigh nothing. 

“Uh, where should I put Max and El’s stuff down?” he says, turning a half-circle like there’s signs or something. His ass looks great, even in sweats, which is _so rude_ of the universe to do to Steve. 

“Just head straight back and follow the noise, the den’s on your right.” He goes back into the kitchen to fetch his coffee mug, to give him time to get his shit together, and Nancy breaks into helpless giggles at whatever stupid look must be on his face. 

“You look like somebody just hit you over the head,” she gets out between giggles, and he just glares at her, takes the tray of cinnamon rolls and his coffee and what’s left of his dignity into the den. The kids are all talking at full volume, and he’s glad he didn’t do anything dumb like drink himself into a hangover last night or he’d be _miserable_. He’s honestly a little bit miserable anyways, and Nancy’s still not completely in control of her laughter as she walks in behind him, which doesn’t help. 

“STEVE,” Max yells, “So YOU’RE the one who ruined my chances at playing an EASY CHARACTER.” Billy, slouching on one of the squishy couches in here, throws a pillow directly at her face, and she splutters at him. 

“Shut the fuck up a little, squirt,” he groans, and Steve agrees, honestly. 

“Billy, Jonathan and I are gonna go set up in one of the other living rooms,” Nancy says, tipping her head towards the informal living room, “You wanna go try to nap in there?”

“It’ll be too loud in there still, probably,” Steve’s mouth says before his brain can catch up, “Nance, why don’t you show him one of the bedrooms upstairs? Not my parents', though, I don’t care how nice the bed is in there, _ugh_.” 

Well, he thinks, he’s ready to die now. He’s offering Billy one of the beds in his house, and if he knows Nancy like he thinks he does, she’s gonna lead Billy straight up to his bedroom, to curl up in Steve’s blankets and ruin his whole life further. The look in Nancy’s eyes as she glances over at Jonathan, all _I have a devious plan_ , only makes him more certain. Fucking hell. 

Billy nods sleepily, grabs his backpack and his stupid, amazing to-go mug and follows Nancy out of the room. She pokes her head back in a few minutes later, winks at him, and leaves them to their nerdhood. 

 

He’s actually having a pretty good time, punching holes in orcs and using his extra special fighter powers to be a meatshield for the magical characters, when the kids start complaining about wanting lunch. He has snacks and shit, so they take a break to go load themselves up with Doritos and chocolate dipped pretzels while they ignore the veggie platter and cut up fruit he’s put out. 

El, further cementing her status as favorite non-Dustin shithead, is the only one who touches the vegetables; it looks like half her fuckin’ plate is sugar snap peas. He pokes his head in to the dining room, and Nancy and Jonathan snap apart immediately. They weren’t even kissing, so he really has no idea why they’re being weird about it. 

“I don’t care if you make out in here or whatever, just don’t get any stains on the couch please, it’s my mom’s favorite. What kinda pizza do you want?” he asks, cracking his neck. It’s sore from looking down at his notes and character sheet for so long, even though he only understands about 50% of his character sheet and most of his notes are basically useless. (He’d noticed one line of his notebook earlier that was just “TOADS!!”) 

“Uh, supreme, please. Oh, my mom gave me cash to give you for hosting,” Nancy says, and she and Jonathan both go for their wallets. 

“Don’t worry about it, guys, I couldn’t spend enough to worry my parents unless I bought a boat or a house or something,” he waves them off. “Where’s Billy?”

“Still asleep,” Nancy says with that stupid fucking look on her face again, like she's six steps ahead of everybody, “You should _go check on him_ , see what kind of pizza he wants.” He flicks her off, but after he goes in to check on the kids, who’re examining his collection of horror movies with delight, he does. 

It’s like Billy’s a magnet, like Steve’s powerless to do anything but go to him. Or probably it’s like Steve’s the moon, pulled into Billy’s orbit and stuck there forever, he’s pretty sure that’s how the moon works. He taps, super lightly, on his own bedroom door, feeling like an idiot, but there’s no answer. He pushes open the door, quiet, and Billy’s asleep in his bed. Steve might actually just, like, burst into flames. It’s _so hard_ , having Billy in his bed when it’s so close to what he wants but it’s not right, Billy’s not there because he _wants to be_ , he’s there because he _has to be_ , because he committed to being here to El and Hopper and Max. 

“Billy,” he whispers, and when Billy doesn’t answer, he walks over to the bed, puts a careful hand on Billy’s arm. He doesn’t shake his shoulder or touch his face, because he wouldn’t be surprised if Billy’s asshole dad had woken him up like that, all sudden. Billy’s still asleep, so Steve rubs his arm a little bit, just a slight back and forth. Billy’s so hot, temperature-wise. Steve would burn himself up on Billy if given half a chance. 

Billy rolls over enough to grab his arm; he pulls on it like he wants Steve to lay down next to him and Steve's never wanted _anything_ more in his fucking _life_. 

“Steve?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and Steve thinks about that poem again, _the curse has come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott_. Billy stirs a little more, opens one eye a little, and lets go of Steve’s arm like he’s been shocked. 

“Sorry, Steve,” he says, voice still sleep-rough but eyes instantly awake. “I didn’t mean to touch you without asking, fuck, sorry, sorry.” He sits up quick, scrubbing his hand over his face. 

“No, you’re okay. I was awake, I could’ve moved if I didn’t like it,” Steve says without thinking. _If I didn’t_ like _it_ , he hears echoing around in his mind, and he hopes he hasn’t given himself away. 

“Sorry to wake you up, I just wanted to see what kind of pizza you wanted, I’m about to order lunch, I figured you’d be hungry when you woke up,” he babbles, anxiety swelling nonsensically in his belly. 

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great,” Billy rumbles, clearing his throat, “I’ll eat anything, whatever the kids don’t get to. What time issit?” He looks a little disoriented, and Steve feels a little guilty for waking him up.

“Well, they’re like a plague of locusts, if I don’t keep you back a few pieces they’ll eat everything before you can get downstairs,” he tries to joke. “It’s around noon, why?”

“I didn’t mean to sleep that long, sorry, fuck,” Billy sighs, stretching on a big yawn. His shirt’s riding high, or his sweats are riding low or something, because when he pulls his arms out straight behind him, Steve’s eyes are glued to the strip of golden stomach that slides into view. He’s never going to be able to sleep in this bed again. 

“Nancy said this was the only bed with sheets on, and I was too tired to go investigating, sorry if it’s not okay that I slept in your bed.” He’s so soft-edged right now, like dreams have filed down all his sharp points.

“No, you’re fine, I don’t mind. I’m glad _someone_ slept in it today; I feel like all I did last night was toss and turn.” He smiles a little, dials the pizza place that delivers on the east side of town, the one that uses real mozzarella. 

“Hi, can I get two large cheese pies, two large pepperonis, and, uh, one extra large supreme?” He rattles off his address, trying not to be self-conscious, but he can feel Billy’s eyes on him. His gaze makes Steve feel almost as hot as Billy’s skin is. 

“They’ll be here in half an hour,” Steve says when he hangs up, trying desperately to get their conversation back into known territory. 

“Mmm, okay. I should probably get up. I know Nancy probably didn’t notice the time since she has _deeeear Jonny_ down there to keep her busy, but we should really talk about that dumb project,” Billy sighs, fully awake now and misquoting _The Shining_. 

“I loved that movie, Jack Nicholson is a _master_ in that, it’s so scary,” Steve gushes, mostly just excited to have something neutral to talk about. 

“It’s a killer movie, and this creepy twins? _Ugh!_ ” Billy exclaims in excited revulsion. They’re talking about how fucking cool the carpet is when they get to the kitchen downstairs. 

“STEVE, we’re gonna leave Phil behind in this dungeon if you don’t GET THE HELL IN HERE, Jesus,” Mike yells, all pubescent hormones. 

“OKAY, OKAY, give me A MINUTE, I was getting your sustenance prepared, shitheads!” Steve bellows back, grimaces at Billy. 

“I gotta go, I actually kinda give a shit about this character.”

“You named your D’n’D character after _Phil Collins?_ ” Billy asks, laughter thick in his voice.

“No,” Steve sighs, “ _El_ named him after Phil Collins, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her I don’t like the guy.”

Billy’s laughing openly as he pushes Steve toward the den.

“Go forth, _Phillip Collins_ , and fuck up some monsters,” Billy intones like he’s some oracle, and Steve blushes red and goes to help storm the big bad. He’s not even really sure what the boss is called, but he has “Big Bad is An Asshole” written about seven times in his notes, so it’s probably time to go get their asses kicked. Thank God Dustin and Max can both heal, because he has a feeling he’s gonna need a whole bunch of resurrecting before the night is over. 

The kids eat their pizza like they haven’t eaten for a month, and Steve’s so grossed out by it that he takes the other pizza into the living room, eats a few slices with Billy and Nancy and Jonathan. Jonathan apparently brought his whole kit over from home, all his records and everything, and is sitting cross legged on the floor, back to the wall, headphones on, apparently making a mixtape. 

He stops the recording and takes his headphones off after a minute or so, reaching for a slice.

“What’cha doin’ there, Jonathan?” Steve asks through a mouthful of hot cheesy bread.

“Well, _somebody_ kept asking me about bringing _my records_ , and my mom heard me ask what the hell Nance was talking about records and stuff, so I had to haul my whole setup over so she didn’t get suspicious.” Billy’s already laughing, and so is Nancy, if a little bit embarrassedly, but Steve doesn’t get it. 

“What do you mean, _records?_ ” Steve asks, hates feeling like he’s outside an inside joke.

“I called Nancy the other day, asked if Jonathan could bring some weed tonight for me, and she said something about him _bringing his records_ for our project. Did you really call him and say the same thing, you idiot?” Billy explains, and Steve starts laughing too. 

“Well I don’t know exactly how I was supposed to say _Billy needs to buy weed from you_ with my mom standing five feet away, so sue me!” Nancy huffs, and Billy and Steve and Jonathan are all laughing at her now. She stomps her delicate little foot all mad, and it sets them off again, laughing even harder at her impotent little rage. 

They’re just getting themselves back together when Max comes flouncing in, complaining about how there’s no more Cokes, and Steve has to go put _that_ fire out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babies!!!!! 
> 
> I hope you liked the first half of D&D! I very seriously considered outlining their campaign but...uh....y'all don't want to read that. As per usual, I started going and couldn't stop, so there's more than 50% of game day to go!
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes:**
> 
>   * The title of the chapter is _Call Me_ by Blondie! 
>   * The ZZ Top song Billy and Hopper are bopping to is _She Loves My Automobile_. It's very, very funny, and also about cars, two things many ZZ Top songs have in common.
>   * Other songs mentioned: _Call Me_ , by Blondie; _Boys Don't Cry_ , by the Cure, which might make another appearance as a chapter title, we'll see if I remember lmao; and _Girls on Film_ by Duran Duran. _God_ I love eighties music, which I didn't know until I started writing this fic, funnily enough.
>   * The Violent Femmes shirt that's come up a few times in this fic is [this one](http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NDQ3WDUwMA==/z/Jj0AAOxyBjBTWI-m/%24_3.JPG?set_id=2), which I love deep down in my soul and might buy, tbh. I can't tell if it's navy or black SO I decided to make it black b/c our boy Billy don't wear any band tees but black ones.
>   * The _AMAZING_ to-go mug discussed in this chapter can be found [here](https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/-rAAAOSwuhhXWf66/s-l300.jpg). _PLEASE_ go look at it and laugh with me, imagining Billy carrying that fuckin' thing around. 
>   * The poem I keep referencing in Steve's part is [_The Lady of Shallot ___](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45359/the-lady-of-shalott-1832) _ _. It's a fun poem by Tennyson, in which this lady trapped in a castle sees a hot guy and FALLS DOWN DEAD. Every time I reference it in the fic, I want to write "Big mood" after it, which is _absolutely_ anachronistic but and entirely true, honestly. One of my favorite works of all time, an amazing series about sweet, dumb hockey boys in love, _Superstition_ , is the fic that really turned me on to this poem. It's also, like my favorite thing of all time, and you should all go read it. You can find it [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/413233)__
> __
>   * Ward 5B was the first AIDS-dedicated inpatient ward in a hospital in the US, staffed entirely with volunteers, so Mark probably (definitely) has another job in addition to spending a ton of time caring for people who are dying. The bit about having coworkers in AIDS-focused organizations be fine on Friday and dead on Monday is true, but cribbed from another source--it's not necessarily true of Ward 5B specifically. You can read more about the incredible, heroic work they did [in this article from the eighties about it!](https://www.nytimes.com/1985/12/14/us/ward-5b-a-model-of-care-for-aids.html)
>   * I think I may've called Steve the bard of the party earlier, but that's _absolutely_ not true lmao he's definitely the fighter and I love it.
>   * I did not think I was particularly tired when I started writing this, but the significant amount of sleep-related content in this chapter seems to suggest otherwise. Maybe it's because I had to leave my partner all sleepy in my bed this morning when I went to work? Who knows. You're welcome for the sleepy boy content.
> __ 

> 
> __  
> __  
> 
> 
> __  
> __  
> **In the next installment: The rest of game day! A sleepover! (Probably) A mixtape!**  
>   
> 


	9. i'll make you wish (you were mine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Nancy learns to roll a joint, Steve gets stoned, and the author gets to lose her shit about being able to tag this work as "Sharing A Bed"_

So Max, the fuckin’ brat, comes in and starts yellin’ about how they’re out of Cokes or some shit, and Steve goes to help her find the whole other case that’s somewhere in the house, apparently, and now Billy’s _alone_ with fucking Wheeler and Byers.

“So how was your nap?” Nancy asks all innocent, like she didn’t just leave him in Steve’s room to be surrounded by his smell and his blankets and his whole, like, _vibe_ or whatever. 

“It was fine, sorry I slept so long or whatever. I, uh, didn’t get much sleep last night.” He scratches at his chest, where his medal’s laying funny, bites back a yawn. 

“Nightmares?’” Byers says, apropos of nothing, and, like, what the _fuck_ would he know about it anyways?

“What’s it to you, numbnuts?” Billy spits, and, seeing the look in their faces, tries again, tries to be polite the way he knows he can be, probably. “Or, I mean, yeah, but I don’t wanna talk about it. So you use your setup to record mixtapes?”

“Yeah,” Byers says, looks more comfortable now that they’re on neutral ground. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass, means you need to have the actual record or tape or whatever, but you don’t have to worry about the DJ talking over the song or, like, someone yelling your name or anything.”

“Huh. Would you teach me? My Motley Crue tape is a fucking nightmare right now, I didn’t wanna pay for the whole album but it’s full of background noise n’ shit.” This is being nice, right? Isn’t this that thing Ben Franklin did, got his arch nemesis or whoever to get him this rare book to make the other guy like him more? 

“Uh, yeah, whenever, as long as you bring over your AC/DC records. I don’t have any but Will loves those guys; I figured I’d make him a new tape so I don’t have to hear _Should I Stay or Should I Go_ a million times a week.” Jonathan looks kind of--embarrassed? Which, like, Billy totally gets, with how fucking _whipped_ Max and El have him, but it’s funny that Jonny-boy’s embarrassed about shit like this too. 

“Nice, sounds good,” he says, and they talk about music for a minute. Billy’s half-waiting for Steve to come back, for him to be gentle and kind to Billy like he was when he came to wake Billy up, but he doesn’t. After the fourth or fifth time he catches Nancy watching him as he glances back at the doorway, he forces himself to stop, to focus on Jonathan. 

His brain keeps trying to go back to Steve, fingers cool and gentle on Billy’s bicep and voice soft. Steve’s bed is comfortable, with these fancy smooth sheets Billy would bet _money_ are Egyptian cotton or some shit and big soft eiderdown pillows. He’d taken one look at the bed, after Nancy had winked at him for some unfathomable reason and closed the door behind her, taken about half a second to imagine Steve all curled up in it, to imagine crawling in next to him and wrapping himself around Steve like an octopus, and then he'd basically faceplanted in, asleep almost before he hit the pillow. 

Last night, Billy’d kept waking himself up with nightmares of sitting on top of Steve, beating his face in, while Neil stood over him yelling encouragements and criticisms about the efficiency of his punching style. After the third or fourth time he’d woken up in a cold sweat, teeth clenched to keep in the screams of horror, he’d climbed down to the living room and thought about Steve for a while, thought about the extra note Kali had slipped in the package she’d sent-- _give him time to catch up,_ it had said. He'd done most of his homework, too, since he was already up. When El had come bouncing out of her room at eight thirty to go wake him up, he’d just smiled all big and fake and she’d seen right through it. She’d made his tea extra-sweet and put it in the horrible to-go mug she keeps filling for him, just because she knows it makes him blush to carry it around. 

 

El had given him this huge look from behind Steve’s back in the entryway, all _look at this idiot_ , and Billy--well, he didn’t know what to think. Steve had looked dumbfounded, looked like he was seeing a ghost or something. Probably it was just his surprise at seeing Billy there, looking ready to settle in; he didn’t know if anyone had told Steve he was going to be there. But, the rebellious voice in his head had said, _maybe_ it was for some other reason. And so when Steve had blurted out something about taking a nap upstairs, he’d nodded yes without much argument, hadn’t taken any time at all to consider how much it might _wreck him_ , to wake up to Steve looking down at him like he’s a present or something. 

He’d slept like a rock, slept like he was _safe_. He sleeps that way at Hopper’s, usually, although after the first couple days, once his body wasn’t so fucking exhausted, he’d woken up at every noise for a while, been sleeping so light he’d caught El and Hopper both having nightmares. But here, in Steve’s house, surrounded by Steve’s smell, warm and green and a little like patchouli, he hadn’t woken up until Steve had _touched him_. Billy can’t actually remember the last time he slept so easy, so _deep_. 

But now he’s awake, and trying desperately to hold on to the thread of this surreal conversation about Bowie and the Clash and the British Invasion. Nancy keeps looking at him like he’s some new animal she’s studying, but Jonathan is--for once--being chill. 

“Okay, Nance,” Billy sighs after a while, “What’s got that smug fuckin’ look on your face?” He knows he’s being prickly, but it’s hard to find the balance between being the Billy they’ll expect of him, all bluster and bullshit and aggression, and the Billy he _wants_ to be, the Billy who wants to press kisses into the crown of Steve’s head and wrap his arms around Steve’s waist and be _kind_. 

“You just...look like you slept well,” she says like she knows his secrets or something. 

“Any bed’s a good bed, when you’re tired,” Billy deflects. “Hey, did you decide what we’re gonna do for that English assignment?” Wheeler, the fuckin’ nerd, gets real excited and they talk about making the dinner scene a comedy. Honestly, he’s pretty excited about it too, by the time they get it really fleshed out a few hours later. Something about drunk ladies saying stupid shit gets him every time, and _god knows_ he’s been hit on by plenty of wine-drunk moms in his time. 

“You gonna borrow your mom’s robe for the performance? Did I ever tell you about how I found out where the kids were, the night the--well, uh, that night?” he trails off, remembering all the other horrible shit that had apparently happened while he was passed the fuck out. 

“What do you mean?” Nancy asks, waving his awkwardness off. 

“Okay, so I couldn’t find Max, and I knew Neil would beat--uh, he’d be mad as hell if I came home without her, so I figured I’d go by your house, see if the pissant squad was there. Your mom answered the door in a bathrobe, and I would’ve charmed the pants off her, _if she’d been wearing any_. Does your dad not treat her right? Your mom’s too hot to be left unsatisfied, Wheeler,” he says with this big greasy leer, and Jonathan looks like he’s gonna bust out laughing any second. Nancy smacks him on the chest, hard, all pissy. 

“Don’t talk about my mom like that, you-- _you degenerate!_ ” she squawks, and Jonathan’s literally covering his mouth with both hands behind her to keep her from losing her shit on him too. 

“ _Oh Billy_ , Nancy didn’t say what a _magnetic young man_ you are, I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned you, you can call me _Karen_ , honey,” Billy sighs all breathy, just like Mrs. Wheeler, and then before he can keep going he breaks, starts laughing his horrible hyena laugh he does when he can’t fucking help it. 

Jonathan _loses it_ , laughing so hard he stops making noise. He’s just swinging back and forth gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. Nancy looks at him all betrayed for a second, but she can’t hold the expression; she starts giggling too, slow at first but building until she’s wheezing too. 

“I can’t believe--you’re so good at her voice--I just--” she splutters between guffaws, and apparently they’ve been too loud, because Billy glances over and sees all the kids squished together in the doorway, Steve standing behind them laughing a little too, like their punch-drunk state is contagious. 

“I’m glad everything’s okay in here, I was worried somebody was dying or something. You guys are insane, you know that?” Steve complains, and it sets the three of them off again, cackling at each other and the shocked looks on the kids’ faces.

“Billy just--he--I can’t believe--” Nancy tries to explain, but she can’t get a good enough breath to get a sentence out. Steve rolls his eyes at them, wanders off towards the kitchen. The kids all follow him, clamoring for snacks.

Billy and Jonathan and Nancy pull themselves together eventually. It takes longer than it should, though, because Billy keeps looking at the two of them and copying that predatory leer Mrs. Wheeler had given him when she’d said _he could come by anytime, dear_ and setting the other two off. They finally subside into occasional little giggle fits, wipe their tearstained faces and go hunt for any snacks the kids haven’t demolished yet. 

“You’re _funny_ ,” Nancy says all accusing while she fills her plate with baby carrots and teeny tiny little croissants, “When you’re not being an _asshole_.”

“I’m funny when I’m being an asshole, too,” he responds back, “you’re just too much of a goody-goody to laugh.” She gives him this grumpy little glare, _you might be right but it’s still not cute_ , and instead of going back into the fancy living room they were in before, he follows the two of them into the den, a plate of walnut-chocolate chip cookies and the celery no one else seems to want in his hands. The kids and Steve are all huddled around the table, arguing. 

“That’s _stupid_ , Lucas, we’re not going to split the party just to look for some fuckin’ _treasure_. We all go or none of us goes. You know that, idiot!” Will’s saying, and it’s the most animated Billy’s probably ever seen him. Steve’s nodding along real smug, all _I told you so, Lucas_. 

“Use character names and voices, guys, _please_. You’re the veteran players, you’ve gotta set a good example,” Mike’s whining. Fuckin’ titty baby, Billy thinks to himself, and it seems like Will agrees by the way he rolls his eyes all dramatic. 

“Fine, whatever, _Bertram_ , we’re not splitting the party just ‘cause you’re a _greedy son of a bitch!_ ” Will repeats, gruffer, like he’s play-acting.

“What if _the key_ is in that chest, Greech?” Lucas argues back all self-righteous, and Max is baring her teeth at Will all feral from behind Lucas' shoulder. “What if _the key we need to get into Lord Mordencainen’s private office_ is in that chest? Don’t you remember why we came into this castle anyways? We have to prevent Lady Eremere’s assassination, idiot, and the only way to do that is by showing her guard the letters ordering the hit, which are _in Mordencainen’s study._ ”

“I thought you were a _rogue, Bertram,_ I figured you could just, oh, I don't know, _pick the lock_ when we get there, you dolt,” Dustin cuts in all accusing, and Lucas and Max both scoff at him. It’s _amazing_.

This is better than the soaps Susan watches, Billy thinks to himself as he watches the kids argue, watches Mike shake his head at El like _you can’t tell them anything, the idiots_. Finally, after Steve steps in and suggests they all go deal with the chest, they all move their little parcheesi pieces or whatever around on this hand-drawn map somebody’s done in crayon. It’s kinda cute, watching Steve herd the kids’ characters through the hallways with a minimum of grumbling and fingerpointing. 

When Lucas, or, uh, _Bertram_ , Billy guesses, goes to touch the chest, Mike asks him if he’s sure, and Lucas’ eyes get real big. 

“No, wait, I wanna check for traps!” Lucas wails, but Mike just grins this evil fuckin’ grin at him like _now you’ve made a mistake_ and laughs. 

“El, roll me a D20?” he says real casual, and then “Does a 18 hit?” to Lucas, who looks _miserable_. 

“ _You know it does, you asshole_ ,” Lucas snarls, and there’s some more dice rolling and math and shit and Lucas looks all defeated as Mike goes, “What you had all assumed was a chest sticks out its sharp, toothy tongue and licks at Bertram for seven points of damage. It’s a Mimic!” Max looks a little lost. 

“It can take the shape of _anything_ and it likes to eat stupid adventurers like _your boyfriend_ ,” Dustin whispers to her like she's an idiot, so loud it basically defeats the purpose of whispering. She nods her head slowly, and when Dustin looks away she punches him real hard, right in the bicep. Billy feels a surge of pride, embarrassingly.

Lucas is trying to fend off this chest with what sounds like the world’s least effective dagger. Finally, Max takes pity on him and opens her mouth like she’s got some brilliant plan.

“I cast _Banishment_ on the fuckin’ thing,” she says in this funny old woman voice, all proud, and right as he’s about to tease the hell out of her she glares at him like _I’ll kill you in your sleep, you asshole, shut up_. He thinks back to the look on her face when she almost made him a eunuch, compares it to the ferocity on her face now, and keeps his mouth safely shut. 

Billy looks over at Nancy and Jonathan, worried they’re gonna think he’s lame for getting this invested in some kids’ bullshit, but they’re both just as entertained, eyes on Mike’s face as he calculates damage behind his little folder thing. He relaxes back into the couch behind the kids and focuses back in on where Steve’s decided to rush in and start smacking the thing over the head (or whatever) with a mace, which, thinking back to the bat again, Billy figures is probably fitting.   
About an hour later, Billy’s still following but he needs something to do with his hands; he’s not great at sitting still for this long, trying to be quiet so he doesn’t distract anybody. 

Steve’s trying to explain what an arm bar is to Mike as he’s trying to get his character to give one to the apparent mastermind of the whole assassination plot thing, and he’s doing a _terrible_ job. Billy gets up all sudden before his brain has time to remember this is a bad fucking idea, walks over to where Steve’s sitting, and grabs the hand Steve flings out for emphasis. He pulls Steve, _gently_ , into an arm bar before he even registers what his body’s doing. Steve smacks him _hard_ on the thigh, but when Billy scrambles off him, embarrassed and awkward, Steve’s all flushed and grumpy, but he doesn’t look _mad_ or anything. 

Steve glares at him a little, fixes his shirt where Billy rucked it up and runs a hand through his hair to straighten it a little, and with as much dignity as Billy figures he can muster, goes “I wanna do _that_ to the guy.” 

Mike looks impressed, makes Steve roll a die that doesn’t really look like a die, more like a little ball almost, and when Steve says triumphantly _twenty-one_ , Mike sighs all put-upon. 

“You pull _Lord Mordencainen_ , the _governor of this entire frikkin’ colony_ , who could _throw you guys in jail for the next century_ , into an arm bar. Dustin, you’re next, what do you do?”

“Hey, Magnus, are you cool to keep him there and put the pressure on while I interrogate this sorry sonuvabitch?” Dustin asks all cool, like _he’s_ the one doing the sweet fuckin’ wrestling move. 

“Sure,” Steve says all hoarse. Dustin starts talking his fucking mouth off, like usual, and Steve’s just sitting there, doodling little stars on the notebook paper in front of him, so Billy figures he won’t be, like, interrupting or anything, probably. 

“Hey, sorry I touched you like that, I know that wasn’t exactly what we talked about,” he whispers as he leans in to hover next to Steve, forces himself to keep his distance just in case Steve’s uncomfortable or whatever. 

Why the _fuck_ had Billy thought he could keep a promise not to touch Steve? He’s just, like, naturally a touchy person, and Steve just melts into his touch sometimes, so it’s not like Steve _never_ wants Billy to touch him. They need a code word or something, probably. 

“Uh, just don’t put me in any more surprise arm bars, I guess?” Steve murmurs back. “It’s fine, though, you weren’t exactly trying to hurt me, I could’ve gotten out it it any time.” 

“Sure, I’ll let you think that,” Billy laughs a little, quiet, and Max is staring at the two of them. Lucas and Dustin are, too, and he moves back a little, leans over to grab his plate of celery. He doesn’t go back to the couch, though, too content to sit where he is and mutter little snide comments about what Steve does with his character, too quiet for anyone else to hear. Eventually, the kids start griping about being hungry again, and Steve sighs, rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not buying more pizza, you leeches,” he grumps, “So I’m gonna cook something, something with vegetables, and if any of you complain about it Magnus’ll go into a berserker rage and _kill your characters_.” There’s some general mumblings, but no one argues. They just start trying to find the TV remote to turn on MTV or whatever. 

“You can’t go into a berserker rage,” Mike yells at his back as Steve heads back toward the kitchen, “You’re not a barbarian, you idiot!” Steve flips him off, not looking back. 

“We’ll help you, Steve,” Nancy volunteers, and she yanks Billy up to his feet and into the kitchen-- _jeez_ , she’s a little firecracker, isn’t she--and leaves Jonathan in the den, mediating their argument about what to watch.

“My mom froze some lasagna,” Steve’s saying as they come in, “So it’s really just a matter of cooking some kinda veggie they’ll all eat while we bake the 'za. Do you think Max’ll eat sweet potatoes, Billy?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Nah,” Billy dismisses, “She doesn’t trust orange foods, guess I musta smeared sauteed carrot on her cheeks and said something about her new freckles one too many times.” Steve and Nancy both laugh, a little surprised, and Steve starts rifling through his fridge. 

“What about, uh, broccoli with cheese?” He offers, and Billy could fuck with some cheesy broccoli. 

“Sounds good to me, Mr. Mom,” he teases gently, and Steve looks at him all sharp. 

“At least you didn’t just call me _mom_ ,” Steve says with a sigh eventually, a little prickly but trying to hide a little smile just the same. “Dustin keeps trying to get everybody to call me _that_ , and I keep having to threaten to hide the house key where he can’t find it.”

Nancy giggles a little, and they all start moving around, getting stuff ready. Billy grabs the head of broccoli from Steve’s hand, starts chopping it up with the really nice chef’s knife on the fancy wood cutting board. 

God, sometimes he forgets what a _poor little rich boy_ Steve is sometimes, all alone in the beautiful house. It should make him mad, probably, seeing somebody with so much while Neil and Susan both have to work and scrimp to afford their horrible little house, but knowing how _shitty_ Steve must feel when he’s alone, if the crack he’d made about _somebody_ sleeping in his bed is any indication, kind of makes him soften up. 

Nancy’s making tea, it looks like, but she’s only got, like, four spoons of sugar in the bottom of the pitcher. He’s done chopping broccoli, so he puts his hand over hers on the sugar canister and dumps about a cup and a half in. 

“You never made real sweet tea before, ya damn _yankee_?” he says, and his cadence sounds so much like his mom’s, teasing him about being from California and not knowing how to make anything like she was used to, that he _aches_ for a second, with missing her. 

“You’re from _California_ ,” Nancy accuses, and, well, that’s true, he guesses. 

“My mom was from Louisiana,” he says, instead of being all prickly. “She moved to LA to be famous or whatever.”

“I didn’t know that,” Steve pipes up from where he’s cooking broccoli.

“Yeah, I don’t exactly talk about her much, but, she, uh, she was. That’s why I made that cornbread stuffing, for Thanksgiving,” he murmurs, a little embarrassed. He doesn’t really like talking about his mom, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about Steve’s parents other than that they’re gone, like, all the time, and that they’ve got big money, apparently. 

“Makes sense, though,” Steve muses, “You _do_ really like ZZ Top.”

“This shit, coming from a bonafide _Dolly Parton_ fan?” Billy teases back, and Steve flushes. 

“I told you, my _mom’s_ a big fan. Says Dolly knows more about feeling things than any of the girls on the pop radio.” Steve’s blushing dark red, trying to hide his face in the broccoli steam. 

“Your mom likes Dolly?” Nancy interjects, and-- _really?_ Billy’s known Steve, been _nice_ to Steve, for less than two months and he knows more about Steve’s musical tastes (or, as Steve likes to protest, his mom’s musical taste) than Wheeler does, living in the same town as Steve their whole lives? Huh. 

“Nancy, will you do me a favor and put the lasagna in the oven?” Steve says to distract her, and Wheeler lets it drop, stirs boiling water into the tea bags and sugar in the pitcher. 

“We’re gonna give the kids that attention deficit disorder or whatever if we don’t stop feeding ‘em sugar,” she starts up, and Billy and Steve groan in unison, rolling their eyes at each other. What are weekends _for_ , Billy wonders to himself, if not gorging on shit food and pretending you don’t have homework to do?

“Uh, Steve?” Mike meanders in, El close enough to be his shadow. “So, uh, I don’t think we’re gonna have enough time to finish the campaign before eight when we’re all supposed to be home. Do you think we could, uh, have a sleepover or something?”

“Nah, bud, we can’t play without Max and there’s no way her stepdad lets her sleep over at some _teenage boy_ ’s house, Mike.”

“Okay, but what if we call Hopper and ask him if he’s okay with El staying and then if he’s okay with telling Neil that Max is gonna stay with him and El? There’s _no way_ he doesn’t let her sleep over with the chief of police’s daughter, right?” Mike sounds all proud, like he’s cracked some case or something, and Steve’s already got this look on his face like, _ugh, fine_.

“If-- _and only if_ \--Max’s stepdad says she can stay with El, and Hopper agrees to _lie to someone’s parents_ , we can. And Billy has to agree, that’s his _whole night_ , dude. But you guys better have brought clothes to wear already, I’m not taking you home in the morning to change or anything.” Steve’s such a pushover with the kids; it’s cute, really, how soft he is for the little brats. 

Billy rolls his eyes when El looks at him with this big sad look on her face, all _I’ve been traumatized and I want to have a normal life,_ but Max comes running in from the other doorway where she’s apparently been listening to Mike plead their case and _tackles him to the ground_ , yelling right in his ear like some kind of banshee.

“BILLY I SWEAR to GOD if you FUCK THIS UP FOR ME I’ll TELL EVERYONE ALL YOUR SECRETS,” she shrieks, and _Jesus God_ he needs to fit her for a shock collar or something, how can she be so _strong_ when she’s so fuckin’ _small??_

He taps out when she gets both arms around his neck, trying to choke him or something like _that’s_ gonna make him want to help her lie to Neil. She squirms out from underneath him, but she still has that look in her eyes like she’s gonna jump him again if he doesn’t agree. 

“Alright, _fuck, Max,_ I’d like to be alive to drive you to school tomorrow morning, that’s fine so long as you remember that I’m the best big brother in the world and you stop fuckin’ yelling in my ear or my car for, uh three weeks.” She pouts at him, but it’s the kind of pout that he knows means yes, if grudgingly so. 

“ _And_ you and El have to sleep in the same room as Nancy and if you try to go cuddle with your gross little boyfriend--this goes for you too, El--” he says, glaring her down too, “I’ll make sure to tell your respective dads about it.” They look at each other and let out an unconvincingly enthusiastic _ewwww_ , but it’s pretty fucking clear that’s what they were planning on doing. “I fuckin’ _mean it_ , too, Max, I don’t care how dead you’ll be when Neil finds out.”

They both cheer, and the rest of the fuckin’ nerds come running in like they were waiting for their cue or some shit, celebrating. El goes to call Hopper, and after she whispers aggressively at the phone receiver for a few minutes, she puts her arm out towards Billy with the phone in it. 

“He wants to talk to you,” she says, and hushes Mike as he tries to yell something convincing (yeah fucking right) into the phone before Billy can grab it. 

“What’s up, Hop?” Billy sighs, already regretting his life choices. 

“You _really_ wanna chaperone a bunch of nerdy preteens for the night? You’ll have to drop El off at the house tomorrow before you go to school.”

“I’d have to come home to change, anyways, didn’t bring another set’a clothes like the rest of these degenerates seem to’ve. It’s fine, Hop, El and Max’ll just have to owe me _forever_.” Max and El look at each other, then poke their tongues out at him in unison, the little weirdos.

“Alright, well, damn it, I’m gonna go try to intimidate Neil Hargrove over the phone. He might call over there to talk to Max, fair warning not to answer the phone or anything. I wouldn’t give him Steve’s number, ordinarily, but that’s the only way this schtick’s gonna go to plan.” Hop sounds the way he does when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, as if that’s gonna keep him from getting a stress headache. 

“You know, Hop,” Billy says real thoughtful as he looks over to make sure everyone’s distracted by each other, “It’d be a good time to go over and check on Joyce, make sure she’s getting by okay _on her own_ , ya know?” Hopper seems to consider this for a second, silence crackling across the line. 

“Alright, smartass, you don’t give me any lip about Joyce and I won’t give you any about Steve,” Hopper retorts, and that’s fair, honestly. “I’ll call you and give you an update on the Max situation in around twenty.” He hangs up on Billy, and the rest of the kids have to call their respective parents and let them know. 

There’s a little bit of a dicey argument between Nancy and Mrs. Wheeler, until Nancy tells her that she’s going to have to bring two other teenage girls to spend the night in Mrs. Wheeler's house if she says no. When Karen finds out one of the girls is Max, she says yes _real quick_ , and maybe Billy needs to have a talk with Max about how to use her fuckin’ manners in other people’s houses. By the time Hopper calls back, everyone else is all good and Steve is complaining about putting sheets on the guest beds (guest _beds?_ ).

“Alright, Billy, what’d I _tell you_ about answering the damn phone?” Hopper grouses when Billy greets him, and it makes him feel all warm, to have some adult give a shit about Billy’s emotional wellbeing or whatever. Whatever, it’s fine, Billy’s a big kid and he’ll live regardless of whether some old guy gives a shit about him or not. 

“Whatever, old man, what’s the verdict?” he snipes back, and El smiles at him like she’s reading his thoughts or whatever, the creep.

“Neil’s gonna call over there, give her some lecture about _respect and responsibility_ or somethin’, but he said it was fine as long as I personally vouch that you’re gonna get her to school on time, as if you haven’t been doing that all school year. Man, that guy’s a prick,” Hopper complains, and, _yeah,_ Billy knows that, what else is new?

“Oh, and before I get off the line--uh, don’t, uh, call the house after eight, I won’t be home, so, uh, have El radio me or somethin’.” Hopper sounds sheepish, embarrassed, and if Billy didn’t think he’d get an earful of _exactly_ what Hopper thinks about Billy’s big embarrassing crush or whatever, he would press, see where exactly Hopper’s planning on going to. He knows the answer already, though, and he doesn’t really wanna hear it from Hop right now, not after he fell asleep in Steve’s bed. 

So they all eat dinner, when it’s ready, and Steve’s mom’s lasagna is _killer_. Dustin asks why Steve hasn’t made it before, and the tips of Steve’s ears go red as he mumbles something about how this lasagna’s for _special occasions_ or whatever, and Billy’s heart flutters or something gay like that, just at how _sweet_ Steve is. Neil calls in the middle of dinner, and Max goes into the kitchen to answer it, comes back a few minutes later bright red the way she gets when she’s trying not to cry. He’s ready to stand up, go call Neil back and cuss him out, but he sees Lucas holding her hand under the table and she calms down and he tries real fucking hard to just let it go.

Nancy and Jonathan go back into the other living room after dinner, but since Billy’s got all his homework done already, did it this morning while he couldn’t sleep, he figures he’ll give them some alone time now. They _certainly_ won’t get any later, when Wheeler’s keeping two rabid preteen girls away from their horrible little boyfriends. Billy grabs one of the books he’s reading from his bag, just in case he gets bored or something, but he doesn’t stick around to watch Wheeler get all cutesy with Byers. Instead, he follows the kids back into the den, sits with his back against the couch. Steve grabs his notes and his little character sheet and his handful of weird-shaped dice from the other side of the table and shoves in between Dustin and Will to sit by Billy. Billy’s got his knees up, the better to prop his book on, and Steve gently, carefully leans back against Billy’s shins. 

Billy wonders, briefly, if the feeling in his chest is heart palpitations. He decides, as he opens _Pet Sematary_ , that even if it is, he’ll die happy. It’s funny, he thinks, that he’s happier than he’s been since his mom died, sitting here in this room full of snot-nosed kids, totally sober, getting cozy with some boy from the right side of the tracks. He decides he’s done philosophizing, then, and reads about some creepy dead people coming back to life for a while. El goes to make tea at about seven, and she brings him this huge mug, “forgets” to bring Steve one, so every so often, Steve will reach over and grab it out of his hand, take a huge loud slurp just because he’s figured out it annoys Billy endlessly, and pass it back. 

They finally kill the big bad guy, Mordencainen’s boss or whoever, Billy figures, with this huge collective roar of joy around nine. Max jumps up so quick she spills what’s left of her mug of tea on the carpet--wait, no, Steve’d been smart enough to put towels out under the table to catch crumbs and spills and shit. There’s a little bit of a scramble to get it mopped up before it can soak through the towels, but once that’s done and Steve’s made all the kids put their drinks safely on the table out of harm’s way, they all start hugging and yelling and talking about _how great_ that spell use was and _how cool_ Max’s wildshape bear is. 

Billy looks over at El like _are you seeing this shit?_ and she shrugs back at him like _I don’t really get it either_. He figures when you can do the crazy shit she can do in real life, you don’t need to pretend to be a wizard or a tree person that can shapeshift into a bear or whatever. 

The kids are all falling all over each other to talk to Steve; he’s giving all of them these sweet compliments, real specific about what they did right. Once they’ve all heard about how great they are ( _barf_ , Billy thinks), Steve starts clapping his hands at the kids and making demands. 

“Dustin, you know where the extra linens are, go put clean sheets on the beds in the guest suite. The rest of you assholes, let’s clear this area out and we’ll make a huge pallet down here, follow Dustin and he’ll show you where the extra blankets and pillows and stuff are. 

“Thank God,” Steve sighs as the kids race up the stairs, sounding like a herd of elephants. “I’ve needed to smoke a joint for, I don’t know, _six hours_.”

“I woulda rolled one for you, if I’d known,” Billy offers, shrugging his shoulders back and forth. He feels like his shirt’s too small or something, even though he knows it’s not. “We coulda snuck out back with Nancy and Jonathan and smoked it quick while the kids were eating everything in your kitchen.”

“Nah, I can’t smoke when I’m playing. I figured that out really quick, after the first time.” Steve laughs a little, embarrassed at himself probably, but Billy just smiles at him. "Makes me stupid."

“We can probably put on a movie, let the kids veg out while we go out back. Max said your pool is _heated_.” Warm water surrounding him sounds heavenly to Billy, but Steve looks like Billy just slapped him. 

“Uh, we don’t have to, I guess,” he tries to backtrack.

“Go have Jonathan roll us one,” Steve says, dazed, and “it’s fine, we just...won’t go in the pool.” The kids come thumping back down the stairs, and Steve starts herding them around to move the table, clear off all their shit so they can make the world’s largest pallet. He doesn’t look back at Billy. After a minute, when El glances at him, then Steve, looking heartbroken, he walks out of the room. 

He makes sure to make a ton of noise as he comes towards the living room, and he’s glad he did when he finally walks in. Nancy’s sweater is inside out, and Jonathan’s breathing heavy. Their mouths are swollen, and Billy wishes, just for a second, that he was in one of their places, making out with someone who’s a sure thing, who they haven’t _fucked over_ the way he’s done to Steve. He has to remind himself that Steve’s not _into him_ at all, because Steve’s _straight_. 

“Uh, Jonathan, you brought that grass, right? How much do I owe ya?” Billy says, when he comes back to himself. He goes to dig around in his bag for his wallet, rifles through his cash. 

“Oh, uh, forty for a quarter. It’s _good shit_ though, you don’t need much to get stoned. This guy I buy from grows it in his basement, it’s a trip, all those lamps and shit.” Jonathan hands over a ziploc full of weed, and it smells _good_ , like Christmas trees. Billy passes him a fifty and sits down on the couch, waves off the change, and sets a book on his knees to start rolling. 

“So, uh, why is Steve weird about the pool?” Billy asks, to fill the silence. Nancy sucks in a breath, and when he glances over at Jonathan, he’s all pale too. 

“Uh, there was--an accident. Nancy’s friend, uh, Barb? She, well. She disappeared from the pool, and, well. We, uh, haven’t really been too keen on the pool, any of us, since it happened.” Jonathan looks so uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They flit from Nancy’s back to his knees to the arm of the couch to his hair and back. Well, _shit_. Billy doesn’t know what to say to that. They all sit there in silence, Billy still rolling because at least it’s something to do with his hands while they’re sitting there all awkward.

“ _Jeez_ ,” Nancy says after a minute, when she’s gotten her face back under control, “You’re fast. It takes Jonathan, like, five minutes to roll one up.”

“You, uh, you want me to teach you? It’s easier if you’ve got smaller hands, and the nails actually help,” Billy offers, nodding his chin at her pearly pink nails. She nods, and he pulls a notebook out of his bag for her, passes her a paper, gets himself set up to do another one too. 

“So you’re gonna crumble your weed over the paper, careful--no, not like that, really close so it all gets in there, okay, yeah--and then you wanna get it all kind of spread out even. Here, fold this up into a little triangle so we have a filter, put it on this side, yeah. 

“Okay, so you’re gonna pull towards you and roll, just a little at a time. You wanna make it tight, because if you don’t it won’t burn right and you’ll have to keep lighting it or it’ll fall apart and that’s a fuckin’ waste. Okay, so now that we’ve got all the weed covered up and there’s just a little bit of the paper left, we can seal it, so you’re gonna use your mouth--” Nancy makes a grossed out little sound, makes Billy laugh a little, “yeah, okay Miss Priss, I’ve seen what you can do, no need to be a prude now, just lick the side and stick it down, just like that, then we can twist the tip so the weed doesn’t fall out, and, yeah, okay, there’s a joint!”

“Mine’s not as pretty as yours,” she whines, and _of course_ Wheeler has to be a perfectionist about rolling joints, Billy doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Jonathan cracks up a little, but when she glares at him all prissy he sobers up real quick. It is a little lopsided, and there’s no way they aren’t gonna have to light that one about six times before they get it all smoked, but. 

“It’s a good first effort,” Billy laughs, and Jonathan has to muffle another laugh. 

“You corrupting the youth of Hawkins?” Steve asks from the doorway. How long has he been standing there? Billy’s usually so good about being vigilant when he’s rolling, too afraid to get caught by Neil to get distracted, but trying to help Nancy straighten her joint out had been tough. 

“Naw,” Billy says, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and smiles all mischevious over at Steve. He could look at Steve for _hours_ , probably, _would_ look if Steve’d let him. “I’m providing an essential service to my fellow man. Or,” he winces as Nancy elbows him in the ribs, “to my fellow woman, I guess.”

 

________________

 

Steve’s exhausted, but he’s mostly happy. He’s got all the kids here, safe, and he got to fuck up a bunch of enemies during D&D, which is almost as cathartic as fucking up a bunch of demodogs in real life, and a lot less fucking _terrifying_. Billy and Nancy and Jonathan are here, being in his space even if they aren’t playing, and this is, honestly, how he’d prefer for his house to be all the time--swarming with light and yelling and _life_. 

The kids are all hyped up on beating the campaign, and Mike’s all excited about his campaign going so well, and Steve’s been ready to go to sleep since seven, since he leaned back against the bony warmth of Billy’s shins and felt as close to safe as he’s felt since he learned about the Upside Down.

Billy’s been touchy all day, since he woke up in Steve’s bed, and even when he gets Steve in an armbar like he’s a fucking _WWE superstar_ it doesn’t scare Steve, doesn’t startle him. It’s like now that he knows how _soft_ Billy can be, he can trust Billy not to hurt him, at least while he’s in Steve’s house, looking comfortable and tired and like _he_ feels at home too. The kids all around him, teasing and yelling and goofing around, make him feel comfortable too, make him feel secure enough to decide that he and Billy are sharing a cup of tea now. Billy doesn’t seem to mind it; the secret little smile that plays across his face every time Steve steals the mug from his hand makes Steve think he might even _like it_ , and Steve has to keep telling himself there’s _no way_ , that Billy just likes it because he’s starved for people being nice to him. Steve keeps oscillating between relaxing into Billy, letting everything happen around him, and hyperawareness, nervous about every little muscle twitch and shift annoying Billy, and by the time the kids are going upstairs to get the beds and stuff set up, he’s exhausted, wants nothing more than to get stoned and _go the fuck to bed_ , preferably with someone curled up next to him. 

In his nightmares, he’s cold, all the time, breathing out white clouds of steam and shivering. He’s started leaving a hot water bottle out on the kitchen counter, ready to be filled if he has a nightmare, so he can bring something with a human warmth in to bed with him, remind himself that the cold isn’t forever.

But he’s warm now, and mostly happy, and he wants to get high, to float for a while until it’s a good time for him to go to sleep. So he asks Billy about the weed he and Nancy and Jonathan were talking about earlier, and then--then Billy brings up the pool. He doesn’t do it on purpose, clearly hasn’t heard the stories about why the pool’s off limits now, as long as the sun’s down at least, but he does, and Steve’s struck with cold down to his bones again. The kids come downstairs, thank god, and he can pretend to be distracted by them. 

Once the kids are all comfortable in the den, arguing over whether to watch _Grease_ or _Gremlins_ , he goes to check on Billy and Nance and Jonathan. He finds Billy and Nancy curled over books, Billy poking at the joint Nancy’s trying to roll. He can’t breathe for a minute, watching Billy and Nancy’s clever fingers roll around their respective joints; he loves watching people be _good at things_ the way Billy’s good at rolling j’s, and it’s hard not to think of Nancy’s fingers wrapping around his dick when they’re bent like that. 

He looks over at Jonathan, and from the look on his face, he’s thinking the same thing about Nancy. He can’t decide if it’s gross or not, thinking the same thing about a girl he’s had sex with as her current boyfriend, but before he can really ponder on it, Billy’s using his fucking _tongue_ , pointed and pink and _aggressive_ somehow, to seal the joint he’s got, all in one smooth long motion. 

Steve’s standing there watching Billy, and he sees Jonathan looking at him out of the corner of his eye, sees Jonathan watch him stare at Billy’s mouth, and to cover it up he makes some joke about Billy _corrupting the local youth_. The look Nancy shoots at him screams _I’m sure you’d like him to corrupt_ you, _you big bisexual mess_ , but she doesn’t say anything, _thank god_ , just complains some more about how her first ever joint isn’t perfect, exactly like he’d expect her to. 

The nasal voice of the guy who sings the _Grease_ theme song comes floating in from the other room, and Steve wonders idly how they managed to swing a majority vote for a romantic musical released the better part of a decade ago. Then he remembers what Dustin’s just been through, bringing home a new pet that had gone fucked up on him, and figures that _Grease_ is probably the better pick of the two. 

He and the rest of the “grown ups,” as El refers to them (hilariously), go check on the kids, warn them not to get up to anything _while they’re right outside the door and can see everything_ , and slip out the back door. Steve grabs the radio he keeps at the back door specifically for nights like this, presses play on whatever tape’s in the tape deck. Bow Wow Wow sing-shouts out of the speakers, _he’s got everything that I desire; sets the summer sun on fire_.

They’re sitting on the deck chairs in a circle, mostly. Billy’s got a cigarette out and lit already, and he offers the pack to Steve. When Steve goes to take the pack, Billy gives him the cigarette out of his own mouth, lights another. Steve burns a little as he takes a drag

“Alrighty there, Miss Priss, let’s smoke your first attempt, unless you wanna keep it for posterity’s sake,” Billy jokes, tossing her his zippo. 

“Blow your smoke up, guys, I can’t go home or to school with hair that smells like reefer, my mom’ll kill me _twice_ ,” she chides, lighting up. Steve’d been too nervous to get her to try grass, when they were dating, too afraid she’d lose her shit on him to even ask about it, really, but it looks like she doesn’t mind it with Jonathan. He thinks about being jealous, but honestly it sounds like too much work, and they’re better together than he and Nancy had ever been, really. 

They pass the joint around, and when the radio dj’s voice cuts into the last few seconds of _Working for the Weekend_ , Billy laughs out loud. 

“You make your own mixtapes and they _still_ sound like the fuckin’ radio? I’m gonna have to give you a musical education just like I’m giving Max’n’El, at this rate.” They all laugh, Steve blushing a little, but honestly he’s just glad he wasn’t listening to the country mixtape he made last week. He’d _never_ hear the end of it. 

They get good and stoned, and they go inside, the four of them squishing onto the couch. Nancy’s basically in Jonathan’s _lap_ , which Mike looks like he wants to say something about, but she glares daggers at where he’s holding hands with El and he visibly decides to drop it. Dustin’s already snoring, and Will keeps nodding off, shaking himself awake when his chin dips to his chest. 

Billy’s humming along with Rizzo as she sings _Elvis? Elvis! Let me be! Keep that pelvis far from me!_ , and Steve has just enough brainpower to wonder how Billy knows every line of the song before he falls asleep, head on Billy’s shoulder. 

 

“Steve? _Steve,_ ” Billy’s hissing in his ear, and Steve buries his head further into the pillow, or, shit, into Billy’s shoulder. He’s too fucking tired to care. 

“The kids are all asleep, Jonathan’n’Nancy said they’d get the girls upstairs to sleep so I can haul your princess ass upstairs to your bed,” Billy says, moving Steve around enough so he can stand up. He pick Steve up, bridal style, and distantly, somewhere in his mind, Steve thinks he ought to be embarrassed, but he’s warm and comfortable, his head bumping on Billy’s shoulder as he climbs the stairs, slow and steady. 

When Billy puts him down in the bed all gentle and tries to walk out of the room, Steve gets his body awake enough to grab Billy’s forearm. Steve remembers being in Billy’s position, what feels like a lifetime ago, and all he wants is someone warm to be there with him. If it’s Billy, well, so much better. He can feel the gears of his brain trying to turn, trying to remind him why this is a terrible idea, but he stops them with a little effort. 

“ _C’mere_ ,” he slurs, and pulls harder on Billy. 

“You sure?” Billy whispers, and it’s all Steve can do to grumble something that sounds like yes and pull harder. His last thought, as he’s falling back into sleep, is that Billy is as warm all over as Steve thought he would be. 

Steve wakes up sweating around two, but not from a nightmare. Billy’s just a fucking _furnace_. There’s a brief moment of lucid panic where he worries about what’s gonna happen tomorrow when they wake up, but he pushes it down and rolls back over, already half into a dream about buttercups and giant mugs of warm tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI PALS!!
> 
> Sorry this chapter's a little late! Grad school is kicking my ass a little bit and I had a weird moment of writer's block. (It's gone now, we're good!!)
> 
> **Fun Notes**
> 
>   * The chapter title is from _You're In Love_ , by Ratt. I think pretty much every other song is from the "Steve's walkman" playlist I linked a few chapters ago!
>   * I did absolutely zero research on AD&D, which is the edition they would've been playing because Mike's a little shithead who likes to make things complicated. I actually started playing D&D playing AD&D, but we switched to fifth edition before I actually had to put in my plan of being forced to kill my own character and everyone else's too. I used a few terms that are accurate for 5E, the most current edition, but they might not be for AD&D, so please don't AD&D-pick me because we'll all be disappointed.
>   * Speaking of D&D, Mike as a DM is absolutely based on my last DM, who was an incredibly thorough but also _nitpicky_ fuckin' dude. Good riddance, tbh, I have ADHD and I don't need that mess.
>   * This chapter was the least research-heavy chapter yet! ("research" in previous chapters has absolutely included me watching two hours of eighties prom scenes and also most of both versions of _Footloose_ )
>   * I'm _so embarrassingly excited_ to get to use the "sharing a bed" tag tbh like, I am writing the fic I want to see in the world, yes, thank you.
>   * I know I keep teasing you all about another mixtape but it'll actually be in the next chapter I promise!! I just got excited about my dumb boys touching each other!!!
>   * I love you all very much and your comments and kudos and stuff make my heart so happy, so thank you all _so much_ for all the love you've sent my way!!!
>   * Please suspend your disbelief about a whole bunch of teenagers all sleeping in the same house without anybody getting pregnant or grounded because I would like to have my plot be fun right now before I ruin my own life (and all of yours) in two chapters or so.
> 

> 
> **In the next installment (which you can expect no later than Saturday!): The boys deal with bed-sharing; a mixtape is made and shared I swear this time!!!; Snowball (probably part one, having learned from my D &D mistake re: chapter length)**


	10. every girl an' boy (needs a little joy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Billy makes breakfast, gets his hair cut by a cool lesbian, and gets invited to dinner._

Billy wakes up around five, real sudden. His first instinct is that someone’s in the room, someone’s there to _hurt_ him, to hurt _Steve_ , and his heart starts doing its best to pound right out of his chest. He looks around quick, but there’s no one else in the room; he must’ve had a bad dream or something. It’s probably time for him to get up, anyways; he’d fallen asleep early, when Steve’d pulled him into bed to cuddle, to _croodle_ as his mom used to say. 

He probably should’ve woken Steve up enough to go up on his own, probably should’ve asked about the other guest beds or something, but Steve had looked _so sweet_ , blinking up at him all sleepy-eyed and slow from under his comforter, pulling on him and asking him to stay. Even if Steve kicks his ass, even if Steve never talks to him again, Billy’s pretty fucking glad he got to curl around Steve for one night, to soothe him back to sleep when he’d woken up and peeled off his shirt. 

Billy’s sweating, still in his sweats even though he can’t _stand_ waking up with his hems shoved up around his knees. He had thought coherently for about half a second after he’d decided that yeah, he was going to get into Steve’s bed and be surrounded by him for a while, had decided it would probably freak Steve’s little straight-boy self out to wake up with Billy naked from the waist down. So sue him, for not wearing underwear at _eight in the morning on a Sunday_ , shit. 

He already knows he’s gonna stay awake; when he wakes up _scared_ , not from a nightmare but from a rush of adrenaline, he’s pretty much guaranteed to be up for the morning. He can just about reach the copy of _Macbeth_ on Steve’s bedside table, a dollar bill serving as a bookmark, but then he remembers that Steve’d been stoned out of his gourd last night and tired besides, and figures he’ll give himself--and Steve--as much plausible deniability as he can, given the circumstances. The boys are gonna tease Steve _mercilessly_ , probably, and honestly, Max and El are probably gonna have plenty to say too. If they don’t wake up in the same bed, maybe Steve will just forget about it, or not mention it. Billy’s pretty sure he couldn’t stand it, if Steve were shitty about it.

Steve was just so _cuddly_ last night; he’d hummed along to a few songs, but he was basically out, drooling on Billy’s t-shirt, by _Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee_. Billy’s embarrassed that he knows all the words, but Mark _loves_ the damn movie, had told him about thirty-seven hundred times that if anyone he knew was Rizzo in real life, it was Billy, and so he holds this horrible, embarrassing love for _Grease_ , deep down where not even Max knows about it. 

Steve had burrowed into his shoulder, when Billy’d tried to wake him, and knowing that Steve isn’t sleeping well, Billy hadn’t had the heart to shake him awake, to push him away. Billy knows, deep down, that he’ll wreck himself on Steve, if Steve gives him the chance, the same way the waves crash into the beach, destroying themselves eternally for the love of the sand. But he’s not exactly eager to throw himself on Steve either, knowing that Steve won’t appreciate it, won’t let Billy wear him down the way the beach lets itself be shaped by the water. 

So he gets up, careful, tries not to let too much cold air under the covers to wake Steve. He goes downstairs and it only takes him about seven minutes to figure out the coffeemaker, one of those fancy percolating ones you heat on the stove; he won’t drink any, but Jonathan and Steve and Wheeler’ll all need the energy they can get to wrangle the fucking kids into school clothes and out the door. 

He makes himself a cup of tea, finds his copy of _Pet Sematary_ and tiptoes out of the den to the chairs they sat in outside last night. They’re still shoved into a tight circle, so he uses one as a footrest, sips hot tea from the giant mug El picked out for him. At around six forty-five, Wheeler comes downstairs, hair a giant cloud of brown curls; she doesn’t seem to notice him outside, looking in the big picture window towards the kitchen. Huh, he would’ve bet _money_ she curled them every morning, but they look surprisingly natural. She must smell the coffee and figure out where he is, because she comes out back a few minutes later, hands wrapped around a fancy china cup. 

“You’re up early,” she remarks, folding herself into the chair next to him. “How long’ve you been out here?”

“An hour and a half or so? I woke up all sudden, couldn’t get back to sleep,” he says, trying to be nice since it’s so damn early. 

“Mmm,” Nancy hums, looking at the empty trees across the backyard. “Nightmares? El had one last night, around two. It took me and Max to wake her up, took half an hour to get her back down.”

“Nah,” he grimaces, “Although I’m not surprised El did. I don’t think she sleeps great, outside of the cabin. Scared, probably, and I don’t blame her.”

“How did you sleep, away from Hopper’s?” she asks, all casual, and she can wipe that little smirk off her face, thank you very much.

“Fine. Hot as hell, though, I prolly stink.” 

“Steve runs hot when he sleeps, I can only imagine you do too, the way you’ve made it through the cold so far without a good winter coat, so it must’ve been _gross_ , the two of you sharing.”

“You can’t, uh, you can't say anything. Not even to the kids, even if they _do_ think they know what happened last night. It was just, uh, just the kinda thing that happens when you get stoned, didn’t mean anything.” Billy’s afraid, a little bit. Not for himself; none of the idiots at school are dumb enough to mess with him, but they might fuck with Steve about it, if they knew. Nancy’s got this sad look on her face, but, like what the _fuck_ does she know about it?

“Of course not, who do you think I’d tell? The only people I talk to these days are you and Steve and Jonathan and the kids and sometimes the other girls in the honor society, but I can’t _stand_ the way they act like they’re so much better than everyone else just because their grades are good, like _that’s_ really what’s important when there’s fucking monsters running around town.” It’s funny, he’s only ever heard her mad at him, but she’s all fierce at somebody else, and it’s _wild_. He can see it, see why Steve and Jonathan had both wanted her. There’s just so much _life_ running under her good little Miss Priss exterior. 

“Yeah, they haven’t even asked me to join, and my GPA’s better than all of theirs. _Bitches_ ,” he hisses, joking, and she laughs a little. 

“We should probably go wake the beasts,” she sighs, “there’s only so many bathrooms, even in _this_ house, and you’ll have to leave early with Max and El and whoever so you can go get ready too. You wanna make breakfast or go wake people up?” She’s right; it’s almost seven, and he has to get Max to school by eight fifteen. 

He thinks about scaring the little shitheads, about waking Max up with a pillow to the face, about rubbing Steve’s back until he blinks fully awake, and--he can’t. He’s a coward, whatever, so sue him. 

“I’ll do breakfast. Pancakes and bacon and fruit? I think there’s some strawberries and shit still in the fridge.”

“There’s eggs, too, try to hide some vegetables in there so we can at least pretend we fed them well,” she says, stretching her arms up and almost pouring coffee all down herself. Billy’s still laughing a little, quietly, as he goes into the kitchen, starts stirring eggs and mixing milk into the pancake mix he finds in the pantry.

Dustin comes slumping in, makes a beeline for the coffeepot, and if he thinks he’s getting any _stimulants_ on Billy’s watch, he’s delusional. Billy cuts him off, grunts at the fridge and supervises as Dustin pours himself a glass of OJ and downs it in one swallow, basically. its impressive, in a gross way. Maybe his missing teeth make him more aerodynamic?

He looks a lot more awake, after that, and he even helps Billy rip the leaves off the strawberries. He pulls out a waffle iron, too, brandishes it at Billy. 

“You can make waffles instead, make El’s whole fucking _year_ ,” he says through a giant yawn, and Billy takes the waffle iron, makes a test waffle that’s only a little burnt. It’s pretty much like making pancakes, though, where the first one’s terrible but the rest are pretty decent; Steve’s fancy waffle maker even has a timer, and Dustin gets super excited about it, so Billy delegates the waffle-making process to him while Billy chops onions and mushrooms and bell peppers for the world’s largest omelet. He can’t flip it over right, though, so it turns into a giant scramble real quick. 

The rest of the kids start trailing in, grabbing plates and rubbing at the sleep grit in their eyes. Max stands about three inches away from Billy, breathing over his shoulder like _she_ knows how to make eggs or something, and Billy has to fight the urge to elbow her in the stomach. She clearly hasn’t brushed her teeth yet, and it’s _gross_. 

“Max, you asshole, get over there and quit breathin’ your dragon breath on me, you heathen,” he snaps finally, rolling his shoulders. 

“Whatever, fine, just don’t overcook the eggs, you ingrate,” she shoots back.

“When did you become an expert on eggs, Mad Max? Your mom’s made rubbery eggs _every day of your life_ , so don’t get all high-and-mighty on me now.” She scoffs, all offended, and all the other kids crack up. 

Finally he gets the eggs cooked and he and Nancy start passing out halves of waffle and scoops of egg onto the kids’ plates while Jonathan pours milk and juice and stuff. Steve comes downstairs right as they’re all about to start eating, rubbing his eyes. He looks so sleepy, still, but a lot less tired, like he’d gotten some good rest last night. Deep in his belly, Billy’s pleased, _pleased as punch_ , his mom would say, to see Steve all well-rested, even if his presence in Steve’s bed hadn’t had anything to do with it. 

His mom had said once, right around when she and Neil started dating, before he got all shitty and mean, that there was nothing more satisfying than seeing the person you love happier because of things you’ve done, and she was probably right. Not that he loves Steve, or anything, of course, but it is nice to see Steve smiling into his breakfast, gently teasing the kids. 

“Max, El, you guys’ve got to be ready to go by seven thirty-five, we’ve still gotta go back by Hopper’s so I can drop El off and put on real clothes,” Billy says toward the kitchen table from where he’s perched at the counter with Nancy and Jonathan. 

“But Billy, no one else has to go yet,” Max whines, and _jesus_ she’s a plague upon him, a pox upon his house or some shit. 

“Yeah, whiner, but _no one else_ is riding to school with me,” he says back all annoyed. Sometimes she’s an unimaginably huge brat; he’s forgotten, with how chill she’s been lately. 

She complains all through the rest of her breakfast, about the unfairness and how she hates cooked bell peppers, they taste like _vomit_ , and finally Billy just tunes her out, walks into the fancy living room to pack up his backpack. He stashes the mason jar full of pot in the front pocket, where he’ll probably remember to take it out before he goes inside the school, and comes back in to find Max and El--not there. 

“I sent ‘em to go pack up their stuff, get ready to head out.” Steve smiles over at him from where he’s rinsing plates off to put in the dishwasher, and, _okay_. Steve hasn’t said much this morning, since apparently he’s just as quiet first thing in the morning as Billy’d kind of expected him to be, but it looks like they’re just--not going to talk about sharing a bed last night, apparently. 

“Oh, uh, thanks. Sorry I made so many dirty dishes,” Billy says, trying for a normal human tone of voice. He gets pretty close, and Steve waves his hand at the stack of bowls covered in waffle batter and egg stuff like _it’s fine_. 

“It’s fine, I make a huge mess when I cook, too. Plus, I didn’t have to get up and cook the little assholes breakfast,” Steve brushes it off with a lazy little half-laugh thing. Okay, so it’s just not going to be a thing, alright. Billy’s done this before, pretended like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Usually it happens after he’s traded handies with someone who’s not really what you’d call _out_ , and, okay. That’s fine. 

He’s shared beds with other dudes before, too, in a non-sexual way, at parties and shit. Usually there’s some ruckus over it, though, some aggressively _no-homo_ comment about it over breakfast or at school the next day or whatever. It’s weird, how no one’s said anything about it, not even the fuckin’ loudmouth kids. Whatever. Steve doesn’t want it to mean anything, doesn’t want it to be a thing they acknowledge. That's fine. Billy can live with that. 

Max opens her mouth like she’s gonna say something, from the backseat of the Camaro, but instead she lets out a sharp yelp of pain. When he glances in the rearview mirror to make sure everything’s okay, Max is rubbing at her bicep and El winks at him like _I’ll help you out, buddy_. It’s nice, except for how _condescending_ Els’ little smirk is. Where did she learn that one? Probably Nancy _fuckin’_ Wheeler taught her, the little ice princess. 

He really doesn’t mind Wheeler, honestly. Sometimes she gets this fucking look on her face like she knows everything in the whole world and that’s fucking _irritating_ , but she’s a pretty decent friend to Steve, with the way she’s been so protective over him. She’s funny, too, when she lets go of her prissy princess act and says what she’s thinking. She’d made him laugh so hard he was afraid he would wake Steve up last night during _Grease_ , watching her mimic the dance moves of the hand jive all over-exaggerated. 

It’s fun to wind her up, too; she’s just so funny to watch when her face gets all red and she starts throwing her little temper tantrums. From the way fire lights in her eyes when she talks about some stuff, though, mostly Upside-Down stuff, he doesn’t actually want to cross her.

When they get out to the cabin, Billy jumps out and runs in the house, gives Hopper a run-down of what had happened yesterday and all the precautions they’d taken with the kids to make sure there was no _funny business_ , as Hopper calls it, while he throws on a pair of jeans and a buttondown and fixes his hair a little. It’s getting a little wild, a little too much party all over to really call a good mullet; he’s gonna need a haircut soon, probably. 

El comes in as he’s swapping out his denim jacket for his leather one, yawns all wide and goes into her room. Hopper follows her in, asks a few questions about last night just to annoy her. 

“I have to have _examples_ of what you kids do at sleepovers, nowadays, just in case Max’s mom calls me to make sure everything went okay,” he says, almost sounding sincere, and she rolls her eyes, pushes him out and shuts her door. He grins over at Billy like _man, it’s fun to tease her_. 

“You have an okay time, yesterday? Sleep alright and everything?” Hopper sounds a lot more sincere, when he looks over at Billy, like he was actually _worried_. Part of Billy is annoyed by the way Hopper talks to him like he’s some kid who can’t handle a sleepover, too fucked up and _fragile_ to be away from this safe place; he has to remind himself that Hopper took him in out of the goodness of his heart, didn’t just sent him to juvie or adult prison or back into the house of some asshole who would’ve probably killed him, just to be done dealing with Billy. 

“Yeah, it was fine,” he chokes out around the shitty argument he wants to start, “I’ve got to get Max to school before she’s late and Neil hunts me down.” He pushes out of the front door before Hopper can say anything else, and when Max tries to start a conversation he just turns up the radio, lets Vince Neil whine about how _everybody knows smokin’ ain’t allowed in school_. She figures out he’s not interested in talking, eventually, and she pouts all the way to the parking lot. 

“Hey, kid,” he says as she throws herself out of the car, slams the door like an asshole, “you still comin’ to the shop with me after school?” She turns back towards him just long enough to nod, then hurries over to chatter at the other nerds like there’s something new to discuss since literally half an hour ago when they left Steve’s. Fuckin’ weirdo. 

School is fine, as usual. _Señor_ Stephensson’s on the rampage, assigns three whole pages of vocabulary exercises for homework; Hopper’d said something last week about how he’s been picked up for public intox a few times since his divorce got finalized, and apparently he’s decided to take it out on his students. He especially doesn’t like Billy, since Billy’s a good deal more fluent than Stephensson is and isn’t afraid to correct his grammar mistakes; Billy almost gets a detention, explaining at full volume to the girl behind him about how _no one uses the future perfect, at least no one who’s a native speaker_. He shuts up real quick, though, once Stephensson starts bitching at him; it’s a pain in the ass to do detentions with his work schedule.

Other than that, there’s nothing exciting, just boring teachers explaining shit he already knows. If he hadn’t had to miss that whole month of school, when he was in the hospital and then _after_ when he still couldn’t get around real well, he would’ve been a senior this year, one step closer to getting out of this shithole. He’s so fucking _tired_ of having to pretend he cares about school; his grades are fine, so why should he even have to come to class?

Max is leaning on his car, talking to Lucas all cutesy, when he gets to the parking lot. Lucas has this pinched look on his face, like he wants to argue with her but he’s not sure how to do it without pissing her off. Billy unlocks the car, throws his backpack in the backseat, and when he looks over at Max like _I ain’t got all day_ , she smiles at him all nice. 

“Whadda ya want, kid?” he sighs; he knows her bargaining face when he sees it. 

“Can Lucas come with us to the shop? We won’t be any trouble, promise, Lucas just offered to help me with algebra,” she pleads, and, fuck it, why not. Hutch loves Max, even though he makes fun of her almost as much as Billy does for being a fuckin’ loudmouth. 

“Yeah, shit, I don’t care. Hutch doesn’t know much about Neil, though, so I’d be careful just in case he sees Neil at the store or whatever.” It’s hard, trying to balance the _worry_ that swirls in his gut every time he imagines Neil finding out what Max is doing with Lucas with the conversation he and Lucas had had at Thanksgiving. 

It sucks, being scared about it, but he’s sure Lucas is just as worried as he is; the nervous look on his face actually clears, a little, when Billy warns them, like he’s glad _somebody_ ’s thinking about shit like that. Maybe Billy’ll have to have a talk with Max about that shit again. He knows she knows, on some level, but it’s hard for her to remember sometimes that bad shit can happen to her. She’s so used to being lucky, so used to being treated well, that she forgets that plenty of people _don’t_ get treated right. 

Lucas throws his stuff in the backseat and climbs in. It’s funny, that he already knows that Max bitches and moans if she doesn’t get the front seat, unless she wants to whisper to the other person in the backseat, in which case she’ll just shove herself in next to whoever it is and leave the front seat empty. She’s like a kid with a new toy, easily distracted from it but _absolutely_ not about to share it. 

They head over to the shop, and Billy leaves Max and Lucas to get their stuff spread out at the front desk while he goes to change. Max is getting good enough at charming the people who come in to pick up and drop off their cars that Hutch has started giving her a twenty or two on payday for her help, although Billy’s pretty sure it’s mostly bribe money to get her out of the shop and at the arcade or the diner. 

She can be fucking _loud_ , singing along to the top-40s station in the reception area and yelling into the shop to see if Mrs. Peters’ Pinto is ready and begging Billy for money to buy a coke or whatever, and sometimes she surprises Hutch and he drops a wrench or a part or something and he gets all annoyed with her, understandably. 

“That sister a’yours got a little boyfriend then, huh?” Hutch asks casually as they’re getting the transmission out of an ugly burnt orange Pacer. Billy fumbles with the ratchet he’s holding, drops it under the car. As he’s bending down to get it, he chances a look at Hutch’s face, but he doesn’t look disgusted or whatever. 

“Yeah. He’s a punk, but he’s nice enough to her, ‘n he’s a hell of a lot better’n I am at calming her down when she goes ballistic.” He tries to project clearly at Hutch how protective he is about the two of them with his tone, finds himself puffing out his chest a little in anticipation of something shitty. Hutch just nods, turning around to put the busted-up old transmission on the rolling cart behind him and grab the new part. 

“Good, he looks like a nice enough kid, and he’s quiet too. Guess you’d have to be, though, to date that little loudmouth.” Hutch chuckles a little, and Billy does too.

“Yeah, god knows I talk too much for her liking,” Billy says back, and then, real serious, “Uh, don’t mention it, though, if Neil ever comes in to drop his truck off or somethin’, alright?” Hutch glances over at him quick, must see something important in the look on Billy’s face.

“Yeah, kid, ‘s your old man that kinda asshole too?” he asks, voice still light. He face is tight, though, with anger or something probably, and Billy’s hackles drop. 

“He’s just about every kinda asshole. Racist, sexist, hates the queers too,” Billy says, and he doesn’t realize he’s trying to test the waters with Hutch until he says it, lets _queers_ drop from his mouth a little hard, a little angry. 

“Well, I’d be a real asshole if I hated gays,” Hutch says slow, “seeing as my brother’s one. He’s out in Chicago, tells our mom he’s lookin’ for the right girl while he and his sweetie share a one-bedroom. Ma thinks it’s just because it’s so expensive, to live out there.” Billy realizes, suddenly, that Hutch is testing him, too. 

“Oh, nice, I haven’t been to Chicago much, but I’m sure it is expensive. A friend’a mine, Mark, he’s over in San Francisco, helping those poor guys who’ve got sick. Your brother’s okay, though, right? Not tired or coughing or anything? No weird illnesses?” Billy’s straddling a fine line here, trying to figure out how much he’ll have to say, how much Hutch’ll read between the lines. 

“He’s fine, thanks for asking. I worried about him a lot, but he says they’ve got this new blood test you can get now, and he’n’Jonah both got it a month or two ago, came back negative and everything.” Hutch’s face is clearer now, less hard-lined; Billy’s pretty sure they’re okay, now, and when Hutch starts complaining about why anyone would buy such an _ugly_ car, especially considering how much work Dennis Wakefield’s had to pay Hutch just to keep the damn thing running since he bought it, Billy knows they’re fine. He hadn’t even had to come out or do anything else stupid to get there. 

 

Lucas’ mom drops by the shop around five to get him; apparently, they’re eating early tonight. Billy wipes himself down, goes out to her car to introduce himself properly and tell her how good the mashed potatoes she’d sent with Lucas for Thanksgiving were. He doesn’t try to charm her like he’d charmed Mrs. Wheeler, mostly because she has this look in her eyes that says she can read him like a book. 

“Thank you, Billy,” she says real polite, “Lucas says you’ve been good to Maxine lately, good to him, too.” Lucas looks down all embarrassed, but Mrs. Sinclair ignores him, just keeps looking at Billy with these clear brown eyes that feel like they’re cataloguing every smudge of oil he’s missed on his hands and neck and every hair out of place. 

“If you think you can behave yourself, Mr. Sinclair and I would like to have you and Max over for dinner, does next week work? Lucas said you’d take him and Maxine to the Snow Ball next Saturday, and we usually like to get to know people before we let the kids ride in their cars. How does next Wednesday sound?” He’s terrified to piss her off; she’s even scarier than Max is, and she hasn’t even threatened him yet, not really. 

“Uh, yes ma’am, I can shuffle around my schedule here so we can be there. What time?” he agrees, cowed. If she’s this scary, he can only imagine Mr. Sinclair must be, too. Lucas seems like the kinda kid whose parents actually give a shit, and he’s always got the strictest curfews and stuff, from what Max bitches about all the time. 

“Six is fine, dear,” she says, and her smile couldn’t be more frightening if she had pointed teeth like a shark’s. 

“Max,” he blusters as soon as the Sinclairs are safely down the street and can’t hear him, “Why’d your little boyfriend’s mother just intimidate me into agreeing to bring you over for dinner next week? You been spreadin’ rumors?”

“No,” she says all prim, “Lucas just tells his parents about all the shit people do, they have all these talks about _how Lucas can be as safe as possible in a town full of bigots_ , or at least that’s what he says when he calls me afterwards. He musta told ‘em about what an asshole you were.” He could _kill her_ , for not warning him when he’d come through the waiting room to greet Mrs. Sinclair; what a little shithead Max is. 

“Alright, asshole, now I’ve got to worry about looking all fancy for them next week. You’re the one who’s got to get permission from Neil and Susan, though, it’s not my fuckin’ job to get you out of eating Susan’s crunchy mac and cheese or whatever it is she’s making on Wednesdays now.” 

She makes this disgusting face at him like _of course not, you idiot_ , and then proceeds to ignore him in favor of warbling along to _I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues_. It’s almost a relief when he goes back into the shop and Alabama’s yowling _gone, gone with the wind, there ain’t nobody lookin’ back again_. He gets to hammer dents out of some wheels where Old Lady Hawthorne drove over the curb at the Hy-Vee, though, and he gets most of his Sinclair-related anxiety out that way. 

The rest of the week’s just as uneventful, except now he has to hear Tommy bitch at him every five seconds _how come you’re talking to Harrington and those other freaks_. Apparently Tommy’s gotten over Billy punching him in the face, which is honestly a little unfortunate; Billy had gotten used to being able to take a piss without Tommy there to make some stupid comment about _how great Julie Isaacs’ tits look in the sweater she’s wearing_ or whatever bullshit Tommy’s on about that day. 

On Thursday, he bails out on sitting with Tommy and the rest of the guys on the basketball team to plop down next to Byers. He ignores Tommy’s flailing arms and exaggerated grimace, just steals a carrot stick from the little baggie of them in front of Nancy. 

“Byers, you still gonna help me make a mixtape with your fancy setup? I have a few I’ve been planning out.”

“Uh, sure,” Jonathan says, and Steve looks over at the two of them kinda sharpish, as if he’s surprised they can talk to each other without being assholes. “You wanna come over this afternoon? I’m home with Will while Mom covers for Denice at the store.”

“Sounds good, I’m off today anyways. You want me to bring over all my records, or just the ones we already talked about, the AC/DC and shit?” They talk logistics for a while; apparently Will likes to have El around when he can, since she’s the only one who’s dealt with the Upside Down as personally as he has, so Billy’ll probably bring her along, too. 

“Who you makin’ mixtapes for?” asks Steve all casual once they’re done figuring everything out, and that’s a little strange. 

He and Steve haven’t been avoiding each other, exactly, but they don’t hang out, either, and it’s weirdly hard for Billy to talk to him without wanting to bring up how Steve’s sleeping, if his parents are supposed to come home anytime soon so he’s not all alone in that big empty house. He’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t want to talk to him about that kinda stuff, if the few times he’s asked before are any indication. Why the hell would Steve be curious about who he’s making mixtapes for?

“Oh, just a few for myself, maybe one for El to get her to quit listening to fucking Duran Duran in the mornings when I’m trying to have a second of peace. Why, you want one? I said I’d have to give you a musical education, too,” he offers, half-joking. Steve looks like his feelings are hurt, though, and he makes this little moue of disappointment down at his cafeteria pizza. 

“Are you kidding? You really think I’d want a tape full of hard rock assholes singing about how all they do is snort cocaine and have sex with hot girls? I’ll pass, thanks,” Steve recovers, and then they’re all off on an argument about how every band has a song or two about partying. 

Jonathan and Billy are on the same side, which is funny, hearing Jonny-boy back him up about how _Nicky Sixx can’t be having sex like the tabloids say he is or he’d be dead from sheer exhaustion, if not some weird STI_. Nancy and Steve are biting right back, though, talking about how Phil Collins and Blondie and A Flock of Seagulls don’t have to use drugs or drive drunk to have a good time. It’s the most interesting lunch he’s had in a while, if he’s honest with himself. 

 

He has to make a pit stop at the cabin after he drops Max off, so he can pick up El and all of his records. He bring a few of Hop’s, too, after a little consideration, and El almost squishes the pack of tapes he’d bought on the way home when she plops into the passenger seat without looking. 

“Mixtapes?” El says, after he gets off the phone with Hopper to make sure he won’t come home to an empty house without warning. 

“Yeah, kid, you pick songs you like, songs that mean somethin’ to you, and you put them all together on one tape so you can give ‘em to the person you made it for, or I guess keep it for yourself if you wanna.” She nods at him slow, the way she usually does when he explains something new. He tests her on her vocabulary on the way to the Byers’, makes her explain the plot of _From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankwiler_ like she’s doing a book report. 

He’s gonna have to get Nancy to help him figure out what else she needs to study to be ready for school here; he knows what he’d read in middle school in California, but there’s some stuff his teachers talk about as if he should’ve read or heard about in previous classes that he’s had to catch up on. He doesn’t want El to have to catch up on school stuff, especially if she’s gonna be a little behind the other kids socially anyways. 

When they get to the Byers’, El carries the box of blank tapes and about three records, lets Billy struggle up to the door with his giant box of records. Will opens the door, and he looks _so excited_ to see them. It’s kinda nice, having one of the mouthbreathers be excited to see him. Sometimes Max is, but she always hides it under this cool girl facade she’s trying to cultivate. Will’s just openly excited, smile big and eyes happy. He makes Billy come see his bedroom, and the kid’s honestly got some pretty cool art and stuff up, things he’s drawn, Billy figures. 

“You ever read comics?” Billy asks, and he knows the answer, but he lets Will drone on about how cool Iron Man is, how he thinks Batman’s overrated. Billy says one thing about the X-Men and Will’s off, working himself up to a fever pitch about Storm and Wolverine. 

“Powers?” El says after a while, and Will turns a little pale, like he’s worried he’s gonna upset her or something.

“You got any _West Coast Avengers_?” Billy asks before anyone can get weird about shit. “El, you kinda remind me of the Scarlet Witch. Not really her in _The Vision and Scarlet Witch_ , that one’s kinda weird, but in _West Coast Avengers_ her powers are kinda like yours, and she’s got a brother who’s got superpowers, too.” Will nods, starts rifling through a milk crate full of comics, and El leans down to look over his shoulder. 

“Hey, Billy, in here,” Jonathan says, and he wishes Jonathan wouldn’t’ve left him to navigate Will and El by himself, a little bit, but it’s fine, probably. They don’t sound like they’re killing each other or anything, so everything’s okay for now, he figures. 

He picks up his records, balancing the tapes on top precariously, and follows the music he can hear into Jonathan’s bedroom. There’s photos everywhere, of Nancy and Will and Joyce and the other nerds, some movie posters too. A few pieces of art that Will’s drawn are displayed right in the middle of everything, clearly the most important things. He’s got a bunch of records in milk crates in one corner, next to the stereo Billy’d seen on Sunday, and Jonathan’s lying diagonal on his bed, book in his hand. He dog-ears the corner of the page he’s reading, rolls over onto his back and waves to Billy. 

“Man, you’ve got a ton of records,” Jonathan says, and when Billy puts them down, takes off his bulging backpack and drops it on the ground, he laughs a little at the clattering sound it makes. 

“Issat full of tapes, too? Lucky,” Jonathan grumbles, and Billy smiles. He’s met plenty of people who’re big into music, and he’s one of them, really. He’s not into the quality part of music, though, necessarily, not dead set on only listening to records because _tapes sounds like shit, man_. Jonathan would fit right in at the punk shows and dive bars Billy misses like a phantom limb some nights; he probably has a few conspiracy theories about why Joan Jett left the Heartbreakers that would fit right in at the record stores in West LA. 

“I got most of it from the bands, when they played house parties and little shows and shit, at least the tapes. The records I bought at the record stores, mostly. You wanna tell me how to use the recorder so I can do that while you look through my stuff? You can borrow whatever you want, except some of the tapes.” Billy starts rifling around in the front pocket of his backpack, looking for the crumpled up piece of paper he’d written a few lists of songs on. He finds a joint with his fingers, though, and holds it up to Jonathan with a raised eyebrow. 

They go out back to smoke the j, obviously; Billy’s not stupid enough to smoke in plain view of the chief of police’s kid, no matter whether they all know he smokes pot or not. It’s just not respectful, and he doesn’t wanna have to explain _what that smell is_ to El while Hopper’s looking on all fake-serious. 

“You’re not so bad, Hargrove, when you’re not actively being a piece of shit,” Byers sighs on an exhale. He doesn’t sound like he’s picking a fight, more like he’s making an observation. 

“Yeah, well, I had to show everybody not to fuck with me first, before I started trying to be a better person or whatever.” He gets a speck of burnt weed on his tongue, has to make a stupid face and kinda spit a bunch to get it out of his mouth, and Jonathan laughs at him. 

“Careful there, big boy, you get a scooby snack?” Jonathan jokes, and, uh, _what?_

“Uh, what?” Billy says, confused. 

“Do people not say that, in Cali? When you get a little weed on your tongue, it’s called getting a scooby snack, or at least that’s what I’ve always heard.” Jonathan is full of surprises, Billy reflects.

“Nah, they don’t, but it’s fuckin’ funny,” Billy laughs. “It’s crazy, isn’t it, how people have such different words for it? I haven’t heard anyone call it _reefer_ in years in Cali, but like half the kids around here call it that. Hopper called it _wacky tobaccy_ once, which was the worst thing I’ve ever heard him say, probably.” Jonathan breaks out into laughter, and Billy does too, remembering the _amazing_ look on Hopper’s face when Billy had mocked him for being an old man with old man pot slang. 

They go inside after they finish the j and smoke a cigarette to cover up the smell, and Jonathan teaches him how to record. He’s putting _Baba O’Riley_ on the tape, headphones on to hear when the song ends, when Jonathan says something, looks over at him expectantly. 

“What?” Billy says, one headphone off. _Baba O’Riley_ ’s a long song; he doesn’t have to be quite so focused on when to stop the record. 

“Who are you making tapes for?” Jonathan asks. If Wheeler was asking, he’d just figure she was trying to get all in his business, because _she would be_ , but Jonathan sounds actually curious about it. 

“Uh, El, and some other ones for my car and shit,” Billy demurs, forcing himself not to look over at the tracklist on the ground between the two of them. It has a big _Steve_ scrawled at the top, courtesy of El practicing her penmanship and helping him make a list. She doesn’t really understand the _meaning_ of a mixtape, thankfully, and so he’d yelled songs down to her to spell out for him. 

“Not for Steve, then?” Jonathan asks mildly, and how the fuck does he know? Billy’s working to keep the fear off his face when Jonathan goes on, “You said at lunch that you’d have to help him with his musical education or whatever.”

“Oh, uh, yeah I’ll probably make one for him too, I can’t stand Duran Duran and Donna Summer and the rest of the pop shit he listens to.” Thank God he’s given himself that much wiggle room; this way, he can make Steve a mixtape without anyone thinking too hard about it. 

Billy isn’t even really sure why he’s making Steve a mixtape, or why he’d had to do about four lists of songs before he had one that felt right. He hasn’t really thought too much about what the songs mean, why he’s planning on putting _Crimson and Cover_ at the end when all he can think about when he hears it is the warmth in his stomach when Steve’d asked him to stay or why he’s picked _I Put the Finger on You_ knowing the lyrics are a little more forward than they probably should be for a mixtape for a friend, _I put the finger right in you; you put your fingers round me too_. 

Thankfully, _Baba O’Riley_ ’s violin raises to a fever pitch and Billy has to put his headphones all the way on and focus on the recording. He forces himself not to think about Steve as he records. Jonathan asks a ton of questions about all the punk music he’s got, and by the time Billy leaves with a mess of a mixtape for El, a few re-recorded tapes for his car, and Steve’s mixtape, song titles written carefully in all caps on the case, Jonathan’s borrowed six or seven of his records and a whole bunch of tapes, too. He collects El, hustles her into the Camaro. 

She _loves_ her new mixtape, full of AC/DC and Heart and Joan Jett, and so they listen to it real loud on the way home. She’s gotta learn to rebel sometime from someone, and if he leaves her rebellion to the dork patrol, she’ll _never_ be cool. Plus Kali’ll probably come skin him alive for letting her rebel by playing D&D and sneaking out to _do science_ or some other lame shit. 

 

The next week, Billy wears a red button-down to school on Wednesday, open as far as he can stand it in the cold. Nancy and Steve both tease him for being more concerned about how good he looks than about whether he’s at risk of catching hypothermia at lunch. He’s been sitting with them more, mostly because it keeps Tommy from getting too close to him. He’s not about to burn bridges with Tommy, not when Tommy’s half the reason he rules the school, but _holy shit_ he gets annoying sometimes. 

“Steve, where do you get your hair cut?” Billy asks, trying to be casual. He really doesn’t wanna make it some huge thing, getting his hair done, but from the exuberant look Steve and Wheeler share, he’s gonna be hearing about it until this time next year.

“Why, buddy, you lookin’ to get the Steve Harrington look?” Steve jokes, and Nancy snorts indelicately. 

“No, I need to get a trim or whatever. Max and I are going to dinner at the Sinclair’s, and--”

“And Mrs. Sinclair made you feel like a piece of dirt that somehow appeared on the sole of her shoe?” Steve finishes, and Nancy nods along soberly. “Yeah, B, that makes sense. I wore a sports coat to dinner, when I went.” Billy’s face must be terrified, because Steve adds real quick, “And she made fun of me for being overdressed the whole time.” Oh, thank God. 

Steve rattles off the name of his barber, and Billy nods along all serious. He offers to let Billy and Nancy and Jonathan stay at his house, after the Snow Ball, too.  
“My parents don’t get home till the twenty-second, and we can all walk over there and home together so, uh, so nothing happens,” he trails off. 

“I’ll drive us,” Nancy offers, “I’m not gonna drink at the party.” With that settled, Billy’s done worrying about anything other than dinner tonight and the _incredibly_ lazy nickname Steve's apparently given him. He goes to the payphones before his next class, to call for an appointment after school, and when he says Steve’s name, the barber promises to get him in. 

He drops Max off at the arcade, gives her a couple bucks to entertain herself with, and when he goes to the barber shop, the barber asks him what to do with his hair and--he has no idea. He’s been growing his hair out for forever, but now it just gets in his way at work, and sometimes when he has nightmares about Neil he wakes up with his hair wrapped tight around his fist. Neil had liked to use it as a handle, sort of, another place to grip to push Billy around where Neil’d wanted him to go. He kind of wants to cut it off, even though he can hear his mother whining about _how_ nice _it looks long, honey, how_ handsome _you look, like an angel._

She’s gone now, though, and as much as it pains him, the ache of his scalp some mornings is way worse, plus Hutch can’t stop making fun of him. So he tells the barber, Simone, this cool lady with a sleek black mullet and a giant flannel shirt, that he’s willing to cut him off if he’ll still look a little punk rock afterwards.

“What about a bob?” she asks, showing him a photo. Her voice is rich like honey, a little lower than normal for a woman. She’s got smooth dark skin, a sharp-angled face kinda like Grace Jones, just a little. She reminds him of Sade too, in the voice, and she laughs when he says so, sings a little of _Smooth Operator_. The bob is--a lot. It’s still long, but it looks kinda dumb, plus he’s not sure his hair’s straight enough for that, honestly. 

“I could give you the _Steve Harrington_ ,” she teases, her smile growing wide at the blotchy blush he can’t control on his cheeks. “Or--wait, I’ve got it!” She pulls the hair catalogue thing out of his hands, flicks a few pages around and shows him this cool cut, almost like the fifties with short, slicked back sides and a longer fringe on top. “It’ll make your curls look way cooler than this whole permed mop thing all the boys in Motley Crue are rocking.” He likes it, and she nods, goes to get her scissors. 

“I’ll do most of the cut now, before we shampoo. If anyone tries to cut your hair wet, get out of the fuckin’ chair,” she tells him all serious, then gives him this whole lecture about being kind to his curls, moisturizing them and shit. He rolls his eyes, but her hair looks great and she sounds like she knows what he’s talking about.

She lets him have a minute before she starts cutting, and he finds himself needing it, having this weird swell of emotions about his hair like it matters. It’s funny, he wouldn’t have called himself that attached to his hair, really. He doesn’t really care about the length; plenty of people have loved it, moms and boys and girls alike, liked getting their fingers in it, but honestly it’s kind of a pain in the ass. He likes to make sure the curls up front hang right, but the rest of it takes way longer to make look nice than he really has time to spend on it, now. 

She talks about nothing for a while, but she looks at him sharpish in the mirror when she makes the first big cut. It feels--scary, yeah, but kind of nice, too, like there’s some big metaphorical weight off his shoulders now too. 

“I cut mine all off like this when I got kicked out,” Simone says, low so the other guys in the shop can’t hear. “My dad didn’t like my girlfriend, or the fact that I was learning to be a barber instead of a receptionist or somebody’s wife or some shit like that.” 

“Your--uh, your girlfriend?” he says, like an idiot, and she smiles at him all nice in the mirror, keeps cutting the back of his hair. 

“You’re, uh, not...you’re straight, then?” she asks, still calm but a little like she’s forcing it, and--oh. 

“No, I, uh, I’m not,” he murmurs, “But I didn’t realize you could tell by _looking at me_.” He’s a little worried now, that all the shit Neil said about him being a queer and how you could tell from a mile away was true. 

“Well, most people can’t,” she says all gentle, fingers gently tugging his hair straight so she can cut evenly, “but you’ve got those sad eyes like a kid who’s been outed, and, uh, I heard you moved in with the chief. It’s not exactly the largest logical leap, you know. I did the same thing, out in Cincinnati, before Mandy decided she wanted to be closer to her family again and I decided I’d follow her.”

He feels his shoulders relax, and she’s great through the rest of the haircut. She shows him how to get the sides of his hair to lie flat so the top looks even curlier, and she massages his neck while she’s waiting for the hot towel on his face to cool down a little. He tips her, like, fifty percent when she’s done, and she warns him not to let any other idiots in this town cut his hair. The other barbers all yell and grump, but they clearly like her plenty. It’s nice, to see her doing normal person shit without it being weird. 

“OhmyGOD,” Max screeches when he rolls up to pick her up, “Your HAIR, what did you DO to it!!” She’s clearly a little more hopped up than normal; she’s probably nervous. He’s nervous, too, so he’s shorter than he normally would be with her. 

“What, you never seen somebody get a haircut before, shit-for-brains?” he asks all defensive, and she looks at him real sharp, like, _don’t take that tone with me, asshole_. 

“You told Neil you’d never cut it AS LONG AS YOU LIVED!” she shrieks, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t answer to Neil anymore. It’s a pain in the ass, over at the shop. Hutch keeps pulling my hair when I’m trying to get batteries off the rack, and it gets oil in it, like, once a week.” He doesn’t feel like he has to rebel anymore from Neil’s military bullshit, either, he thinks but doesn’t say. From the look on Max’s face, she already knows what he’s thinking. It’s fucking annoying. 

“Let’s go, we don’t wanna be late and I’ve still gotta pick up flowers,” he grumps at her, and she gets in the car finally. 

“Ooh, flowers, you’re not just gonna flirt her pants off like you do with every other mom in Hawkins?” she teases, batting her eyes. He _knows_ she’s infinitely more annoying when he’s nervous and that’s why he legitimately wants to push her out of the car right now; it’s the only reason why he doesn’t really consider actually _doing it_. 

“We’re gonna go in there and be _respectful_ and use our _table manners_ , and you’re gonna use your _inside voice_ in their house. Can you act like you’ve been to town before?” He lectures her, feeling more like his mom with every word. She rolls her eyes at him real big, but calms down a little, too, quits fidgeting in her seat like she’s cracked out. 

“It looks nice,” she offers after a while. When he looks at her like _what does?_ she sighs all dramatic and goes “your HAIR, numbnuts.” 

“Thanks,” he says all embarrassed. He’s glad she likes it, even though she isn’t exactly a paragon of style, honestly. She helps him pick out some daisies at the grocery store; they’re not really what he was planning on getting, but he forgets that you can’t get fresh flowers here that aren’t daisies or roses or whatever other ugly shit they can ship to the middle of the country without killing on the way.

“Hello, Mrs. Sinclair,” Billy says when she opens the door. She eyes him again with that all-seeing vision she’s got, and he’s definitely glad he buttoned up his shirt almost all the way. She seems to approve of his haircut, if the little quirk of a smile in one corner of her mouth is any indication, but honestly it’s just as likely that she thinks it’s funny, him getting all gussied up to come to dinner like she hasn’t already made up her mind about him. 

“Come in, let me go find a vase for these... _lovely_ flowers,” she says, ushering them into the living room. Lucas and a little girl, his sister, are sitting on the living room rug, watching some cartoon. 

“Oh hey Max,” Lucas says, then nods his chin at Billy in greeting. Billy feels like his skin’s too small. 

“ _You_ don’t look as greasy as I thought you would,” says the little girl all snotty at Billy, and Lucas flicks her on the arm, not hard but pointed. 

“ _Hey_ , Erica, enough attitude,” Lucas chides her, but he doesn’t sound that upset. “You really _do_ look cleaner, with that rat’s nest off your head. You’re not gonna impress my mom with the haircut though, you know that right?”

“I didn’t do it for your mom,” Billy says, shooting for politely scornful and probably missing it by a mile. Lucas just raises his eyebrows doubtfully, like, _whatever helps you sleep at night_. Lucas’ mom calls him and Erica in to set the table, and Max and Billy are left alone in the living room, looking at each other like _oh god, now what_. Max flounces into the kitchen after them, to help probably, and Billy’s alone. A door opens in the other room and he can hear the garage closing; Mr. Sinclair must be home. 

“Hello, lovely family, I’m home!” he just about sings, and Billy’s kinda surprised. Mrs. Sinclair’s like steel covered velvet, beautiful but sharp, a little dangerous if you aren’t careful. Mr. Sinclair sounds nice, jovial even. Billy gets to his feet when Mr. Sinclair comes into the room, shakes his hand with a firm grip like Neil’d made him practice when he was younger. 

“Billy, or do you prefer William? It’s so nice to finally meet the man we’ve heard _so much_ about,” Mr. Sinclair says. His tone of voice is friendly, welcoming, but there’s a sharp look in his eye like all I’ve heard is bad news. Billy ducks his head, shows deference like he knows he’s supposed to. 

“Billy’s fine, sir. Your home is lovely.” It is; even though there’s two kids in the house, the house is well-kept and neat. There’s big, pretty windows in the living room, and the furniture all coordinates well. 

“My wife has a fine eye for interior design,” Mr. Sinclair says, and gestures towards the dining room. “I’m sure she’d love to hear the compliment, and I’m pretty sure dinner’s just about ready to eat.” Billy follows him into the dining room, also tastefully decorated, and sits at the empty spot next to Max, right across the table from Erica. She immediately starts making faces at him, trying to freak him out or make him laugh or something; luckily, he’s had plenty of practice ignoring weird younger sisters, so he keeps a straight face. 

“Erica, will you go help your mother bring in the food? Lucas, why don’t you go, too?” Mr. Sinclair says mildly, but they both jump up to go help. Billy’s impressed; the Sinclairs aren’t mean to their kids, clearly, but they both listen shockingly well. Lucas doesn’t even roll his eyes when he has to go help, just nods and follows after Erica, and he’s _never_ seen Lucas do anything without at least a little attitude outside this house. It’s why he and Max get along so well. 

They have a lovely dinner, lots of small talk about what the kids are learning in school ( _nothing of importance,_ says Max like an asshole, but the Sinclairs just laugh like they’re charmed) and what Billy’s thinking about doing after he graduates next year (trade school, if he’s lucky) and what Mr. Sinclair does (he works for some tech company out in Fort Wayne, doing something that Billy can only barely follow). 

The food’s really nice, roast potatoes and asparagus and salmon. Billy compliments everything, tries not to exaggerate. Mrs. Sinclair still ends up looking a little softer at him by the end of dinner, when Max and Lucas offer to go do the dishes and then talk about their math test on Friday. 

“Sit in the living room with Erica,” Mrs. Sinclair says gently as they take the dirty plates into the kitchen, “Not in your room, Lucas.”

“I can go help with dishes,” Billy offers, and she shakes her head no, coolly. 

“That’s the best thing about having kids,” Mr. Sinclair jokes, “you can make them do the chores you don’t wanna do.” 

“Would you like something else to drink, Billy?” he asks, “I believe we’ve got beer in the extra fridge.” 

“Uh, no?” Billy says, confused. “There’s no point in me telling you I don’t drink, you wouldn’t believe me if I tried,” Mr. Sinclair snorts a laugh, “but I don’t drink around the kids, or when I’m gonna be driving them places. I don’t drink at all if I’m gonna be driving, really. It’s just not exactly safe.” 

“Well, I appreciate that honesty, son,” Mr. Sinclair says, and Mrs. Sinclair looks at him a little less chilly, like he's passed some test.

“I’ll tell you straight, Billy, I don’t much like you,” Mrs. Sinclair says after the two of them share one of those weird couple looks that’s like a whole conversation condensed into three seconds, “Especially after the way you treated Lucas in October, but he said you two talked it out, and you apologized. Max says you’re trying to grow as a person, too, and I can respect that, and so you officially have our permission to drive with Lucas in the car.

“Make no mistake, though, Mr. Hargrove,” she says with narrowed eyes, “You’ve gotten your second chance, and I’m not in the habit of allowing any more than two. Keep your act together and we won’t have any problems, but put _one_ toe out of line and I’ll have your head, I don’t care if Hopper’s supporting you.”

“I understand,” Billy says. “I don’t expect to turn back into the kind of person I was then, but if I do, I deserve to get my ass kicked.” He blushes, starts to open his mouth to apologize for swearing, but Mrs. Sinclair just smiles at him, shaking her head no to stop him. 

“I’m glad you recognize that, too,” she says, and then they talk about all the kids’ gossip. He’s heard so much about it, listening to Max yell in the passenger seat, that he gets to tell them about who Dustin’s taking as a date, kind of, and how excited El is to be going to a real school dance.

After a half-hour or so, he realizes the time and says his goodbyes; he needs to get Max home before seven-thirty, or Neil’ll murder him. 

“Thanks,” she says in the car, quiet. “I know you didn’t wanna do that.”

“I don’t mind,” he tries, and then when she looks at him like _pull the other one, idiot,_ “It wasn’t fun, but if that’s what I had to do to get your boyfriend’s parents off your back and mine, it’s what I had to do.” She grabs his hand, squeezes it once, and he’s surprised. She’s not exactly touchy, at least not deliberately. She does it to piss him off, just like he does with his noogies and shit, but she doesn’t usually touch him nicely like that. 

“I, uh, I appreciate it,” she murmurs, and he nods, takes his hand back to put on the gearshift. 

“I’m picking you up Saturday, be ready to go. El wants to _get ready with her friend_ , she said,” he reminds her as she gets out of the car, grabs her backpack. “Hell yeah,” she says, “I’m gonna make you do those cool braids you did for my eighth grade graduation.” He groans, already remembering how many bobby pins he’d needed to get it to stick. 

 

On Friday the dweebs are all in a group talking about the dance or whatever and he and Steve are standing there, waiting for them to quit so they can start the caravan of dropoffs. 

“I like the cut, B,” Steve says out of nowhere, real casual. Billy thought he saw Steve double-take when they made eye contact yesterday morning, but it’s probably just because he looks different, with short hair. Less wild, or, really, wild in a different way. Billy’s been trying really hard to avoid conversations about it; he’d told Diane, the biggest gossip in the school probably, that he’d cut it because he thought the girls of Hawkins deserved a new look to lust after, and there really haven’t been too many comments about it. Lots of stares, though, so at least he knows he’s still hot.

“Oh, uh, thanks. It’s still kinda weird, but I think I like it.”

“Simone did a good job. She’s _so rad_ , right?” Steve’s been saying rad a lot lately, and Billy thinks for a second about making fun of him for it, letting his California drawl come out full force to say something about how rad it is to use California slang in a landlocked state; he doesn’t, mostly because if Steve knew it annoyed him, Steve’d probably start saying _gnarly_ every other word or something else worse. Plus, he thinks it’s kinda cute, Steve’s flat Midwestern _a_ sound that makes it sound almost like he’s saying _red._ God, he’s an idiot for Steve. 

“Yeah, she’s cool as hell. I like her flannel, too, maybe I’ll have to get some. It gets cold enough here to, _eh?_ ” Billy says, trying out some Midwestern slang of his own. Steve smiles at him, and they trade increasingly nonsensical slang back and forth for a while, until Billy remembers the tape shoved under his driver’s seat where Max can’t snoop around and find it. He’s been carrying it around for what feels like forever, and now’s a perfect chance to sneak it into Steve’s car for him to find later. He leans into the Camaro and pretends he’s looking for his lighter.

“Steve, you got a light?” he says, cigarette bobbing between his lips. 

“Uh, maybe? Check the glovebox.” Steve says back from where he’s leaning against the hood of the Beemer. “Dustin, let’s go, I’ve got stuff to do today, bud, _jeez_.” Billy opens the passenger door, leans in and puts the tape on Steve’s seat, pretends to find a lighter in Steve’s glovebox and lights his menthol with his own Zippo.

“MAX,” Billy yells, “Let’s GO! I’m gonna be late for work!” She comes running over, whining at him the whole time, and he’s _so ready_ for the party tomorrow, jesus. 

 

He picks Max up at four, and she’s running her mouth a mile a minute the whole way to Hopper’s. She squeals at the top of her lungs at El as soon as she gets in the front door, and Hopper winces. 

“Has she _always_ been so damn loud?” Hopper grumbles as the girls yell at each other in El’s room. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Billy sighs, “It’s a cross I’ve had to bear for years. Her mom’s not nearly this loud.” Hopper laughs, and they go out front to the designated smoking clearing to get away from the noise. 

“I’m staying over at Steve’s tonight,” Billy says as he’s exhaling.

“You’re leaving me alone with them, all night?” Hopper sighs, as if he doesn’t already know _exactly_ what Billy’s doing tonight. 

“Yeah, bud, I’m not gonna drive drunk and I’m _certainly_ not gonna sit through this whole teenybopper dance without the promise of something strong on the other side,” Billy throws back, and Hopper chuckles. 

“Fair enough. Tell everybody if they don’t do anything stupid, we’ll leave ‘em alone. No noise complaints or drunk drivers, though, or else.”

“Why _don’t_ you get all bent out of shape about parties?” Billy asks, curious. He knows Hopper’s not exactly a model cop in every respect, but it is kinda surprising how little he worries about shit like this.

“I figure you guys are gonna get into trouble whether I like it or not, and trying to end it before it starts means I don’t know where to station my deputies to catch anybody who’s being an idiot. So I’d rather know where the parties are and what’s happening at them than be surprised.” It makes sense, to Billy at least, so he just nods, grinds out his cigarette under the heel of his boot. 

“Hey, Billy,” Hop says out of nowhere, this tone in his voice like he’s asking a question he doesn’t already know the answer to, “You ever thought about college?”

“Uh, no. Kids like me don’t go to college. My transcript’s a fuckin’ _wreck_ , I’ve got no extracurriculars, and there’s _no way_ any sensible person would give me a scholarship, you kiddin’ me?” Hop should know all this; he was a poor, shitty kid when he was younger, too. Billy’s pretty sure Hopper has some kinda degree, but he probably got it under the GI Bill or something. 

“I ran into, uh, Ms. Marsden at the store the other day, you know, the college counselor? She said you’re smart enough to apply, but you’ve been dodging her when she tries to talk to you about it. She said there are _extenuating circumstances_ that can make colleges overlook that kinda thing, and there’s loans and stuff, too. I’d help you out too, if you needed it.” _Fuck_ Ms. Marsden, Billy thinks savagely, and her loudmouth shit. He’s _not going_ to college, and he sure as hell isn’t interested in talking to some stupid twenty-five year old about it like _she’s_ going to change his mind. 

“I don’t think I’d enjoy it, honestly. School’s fine, but I can’t stand that many fuckin’ rules. "I guess I’d better go help them get ready, they’re gonna need it,” he says, changing the subject. Hopper nods at him, but he has this frown on his face like this isn’t the last time we’re gonna talk about this. 

“I’m gonna stay out here, have one last moment of silence tonight,” Hopper sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You know, Joyce is off tonight, I heard. She’ll be alone too, until the end of the dance.” Billy doesn’t look back, but the sudden cough from behind him forces him to stifle a laugh. 

“You’re an _asshole_ ,” Hopper shouts, and Billy just flips him off, keeps walking. 

 

“No, Billy, like you did for my graduation last year, with the two braids down the back like vikings!” Max bitches at him in the mirror. He takes out the braids he’s doing, the ones that _just so happen_ to be the ones he did for her graduation last year, and fights the urge to kill her. 

“Max, I _swear to God_ if you don’t stop whining and let me work, I’ll leave your hair alone and you’ll have to do it yourself,” he warns, smacks her hand with the hairbrush just a little when she tries to get in his way. 

A bunch of the people he’d hung out with back in Cali had had long hair, or at least had wigs, and once Mark had figured out that he could do fancy updos and shit by looking at the finished product, Billy had gotten a side hustle doing people’s hair for drag shows or whatever. It had paid for his weed back then, and now _this_ is all his braiding skills are good for. Maxine had tried to get him into drag in LA, offered to welcome him into her family, but all Billy had been able to imagine was Neil seeing him in lipstick and a skirt and killing him, _for real_ , so he’d stayed in the background, helping with hair and makeup sometimes. 

So anyways, here he is, playing beautician to a couple preteens like _that’s_ a normal thing for an eighteen-year old guy to do. Max might _actually_ kill him if she doesn’t chill out long enough to get her braids right. El’s hair looks fucking _cool_ though, teased a little with one side pinned into this twist that works great with her little waves. Finally, he gets Max’s hair the way she wants it, and as he’s giving them both one final shellac of hairspray, Hopper pokes his head in the bathroom door, presumably to make sure Billy’s still alive. 

“ _You_ did that?” Hopper asks, incredulous, and when Billy nods, smiles at the girls in the mirror, Hopper goes “Are you _fucking kidding me?_ You’ve been this good at braids the whole time and you let me dishonor the name of a french braid without even _a word of advice?_ ” El and Max start laughing hysterically, as if Max has even seen how bad Hopper’s braids used to be; El’s seen Billy’s hair ruined with a horrible, lopsided braid one too many times for her laughter to be anything but honest and joyful. 

Billy’s laughing, too; he tries to stop himself, really, but the outrage on Hopper’s face is just too good, and Hopper breaks a second later. They all sit there laughing for a few minutes, until El recovers enough to pull the eyeliner pencil out of Max’s little makeup bag, presumably taken piece by piece from Susan’s Caboodle full of makeup shit, and starts outlining her eyes. It’s _a lot,_ and a little dark, but it’s pretty fucking cool honestly, makes her look even more like some kind of baby superhero. 

Hopper looks a little concerned about the amount of eyeliner El’s wearing, until Max pulls out a little photo of Siouxie Sioux for inspiration and Billy has to intervene before Max’s whole eyelids are covered in black. He gives her a little soft flick of a wing, instead, and she slathers on the lipstick he’d bought her after one of the Hags had told her she’d look good in it. 

Billy throws on the same white button-down he’d worn to Thanksgiving and his tightest pair of jeans ( _ooh, your_ nice jeans, _fancy!_ Max shrieks when he comes down from the loft), runs a little product through his hair. Honestly, he’s pretty much gotten over the whole haircut thing. He doesn’t double-take when he catches his reflection in mirrors anymore, even if he does still wake up expecting to have hair in his mouth half the time. 

“Alright, girls,” he announces, going to grab his leather jacket off the hook on the wall, “let’s blow this popsicle stand, Nancy said she wanted to have Jonathan get a bunch of photos before the dance actually starts.” Hopper has this gooey look in his eyes, looking at the girls all dressed up and fancy, huge smiles on their faces, and Billy decides discretion is the greater part of valor or whatever and doesn’t comment on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI babies!!! Sorry for the long wait, but here's an extra long chapter to make up for it, I hope!! 
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes:**
> 
>   * The title of this chapter is from Joan Jett's _Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)_
>   * The mixtape! It's finally here!! You can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/nikwarr/playlist/2OKix5y3rpqKgHYBpvbaTX?si=wRxu9cIJQ36Ryb7rTP94Xw). It's in a real order! (Just like Kali's Big Gay Playlist but unlike the other two). I LOVE this playlist, and it's actually the first real thing I did/made for this work!
>   * I have SO MANY references for visuals! [This](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yrodhvdpYi8/W22T8uodJBI/AAAAAAABiKg/5wXCJ4Bhii8H9Vh8QKCFiUFJ7RetHjjaQCLcBGAs/s1600/Men%2527s%2BHairstyles%2Bin%2Bthe%2B1980s%2B%252817%2529.jpg) is Billy's new haircut! More on that below. [ This](http://kcnym.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/fancy-hairstyles-for-short-hair-easy-prom-hairstyles-short-hair-easy-prom-hairstyles-for-short-hair-images.jpg) is El's hair for the Snow Ball (plus a whole fuckin' bunch of teasing). [This](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTkZIvwhf_I82zQeymklm9R3cmT2dVaa33kEy_kB5uPbANXQ_AGuA) is Max's hair, please ignore how modern it is I just can't get over how CUTE Max's hair would look this way omg. 
>   * Why did I cut Billy's hair off, you ask? I gotta, For The Plot. And, also, oh my _god_ I hate a mullet really. Plus the above cut would make Dacre Montgomery, my Aussie boyfriend, look _soo good oh my GOD!_
>   * Siouxsie Sioux is the lead singer of Siouxsie and the Bandshees, a super-fucking-cool band. She wears _the most intense_ eyeliner, and has since the eighties. [Here's a photo](https://cps-static.rovicorp.com/3/JPG_400/MI0001/413/MI0001413567.jpg?partner=allrovi.com) of the terrifying, amazing, inspiring eyeliner look Max is going for. (Also, for the record, I did have a friend tell me when I was about thirteen that my eyeliner looked like hers and I was _so proud_ so maybe that means Siouxsie's eye look is one for the ages?
>   * I have a Tumblr! On it you can ask any questions or have any conversations you wanna! Find it [right here!](achingnostalgia.tumblr.com)
>   * also i edited the last, uh, half this chapter on my phone so if theres anything terrifyingly wrong please let me know!!!!
> 

> 
> **In the next installment (up _probably_ before next Thursday!): The Dance! The Party! The Drama!**


	11. he ain't really trying to cause a scene (it just comes naturally)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Steve is Big Gay(tm) for Billy, Max gets a kiss and a bad idea, and Billy loves bodyshots. (Shocker). It's partytime!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!! Thank you guys SO MUCH for all the love.

Max really might _actually_ lose her shit; she’s having basically the best day ever. Neil hadn’t gotten all weird about her staying the night with someone else, probably since she’s staying with the Chief of Police so _how much trouble can she really get into_ or whatever but also maybe because she’s pretty sure she heard Hopper’s voice through the phone a few weeks ago when he’d called to get permission for her to stay and he’d sounded fucking _terrifying_. She’s spending the night with El, who’s maybe a little weird, a little harder to communicate with than the boys, but that’s because she was a fucking _medical experiment_ , so Max figures she has an excuse. Plus, El’s started using how the boys underestimate her to get them to do, like, whatever she wants, which is the funniest shit _ever_. Max keeps almost cracking up and accidentally letting the boys know El’s way more with it than she acts. 

Max has a boyfriend, a best friend (El had asked her the other night, after her horrible nightmare, once Nancy’d gone back to sleep, _are we friends?_ and, like, _duh._ ), a big brother who’s, like, actively a decent person most of the time now, and a fucking party to go to tonight. She’d said that earlier, on the way to the cabin, and Billy had looked at her all protective like _no the fuck you’re not, idiot,_ and she’d had to clarify that she meant the dance. 

She hadn’t really been _into_ dances, back in Cali; they were where the valley girls went to smack their gum and wear horrible pink barbie doll dresses and be, basically, _a huge fucking annoyance_. But now, here, where her friends are all excited and she can dress up and dance around with her herd of nerds (ha...nerd herd) and slow dance with Lucas, it’s a lot more fun of an idea. Plus, it’s not like there’s a whole lot _else_ to do in this town, besides the arcade and hanging out at each other’s houses. None of the rest of the party is allowed to hang out at the mall the next town over without a parent there, so that’s out, and there’s only so many places she can board, now that there’s snow on the roads and in all the good parking lots. 

Billy helps her with her hair, even if he doesn’t do it right the first three or four times, and he even helps her get her eyeliner on good. He vetoes the Siouxsie Sioux look, which she’s bummed about, but when she looks in the mirror after he’s done, she looks _fucking sick_ , hair braided all cool and red lips in what she’s pretty sure is a knowing smile, like she’s Joan Jett or somebody. El looks just as cool, if a little nicer, a bit more parent-approved, other than the big dark eyeliner that makes her look even more like an elf than she usually does, somehow. 

Billy hustles them into the car, wearing their big coats, which Max only complains about a little bit, really, and they all yell along to _Blister in the Sun_ on the way to the high school. Max feels like she’s got soda in her veins instead of blood, like she’s all fizzy and she’s gonna _explode_ with joy if she doesn’t show everyone in the _whole world_ how happy she is. 

They pick up Lucas on the way, too, and Billy buttons up his shirt when they pull into the driveway. Lucas’d said something a few days ago, before she and Billy had come over for dinner, about how his mom _strikes fear into the hearts of lesser men_ , and Max is pretty sure he’s right. Not that Billy’s, like, a lesser man than other men, but she’s pretty sure _all_ men are lesser men in the eyes of Eliza Sinclair. Max wants to be _just like her_. 

So anyways, Max lets El sit in the front seat, so she and Lucas can sit in the back and hold hands where Billy can’t see. El blinks all wide at them from the front seat, like she’s surprised that Max is letting her sit up there, and that’s probably fair, considering how much she likes to ride in the passenger seat of Billy’s car, have her hair flying in the wind and drum on the dash just to piss Billy off. 

“No gushy shit back there, Max, I don’t wanna see you and your little boyfriend get up to any funny business while I’m tryin’ ta watch the damn road,” Billy says, glancing sharply at her in the rearview mirror, and _how_ does he always notice? He doesn’t usually say anything, really, but she figures he’s in kind of a weird mood today. He’s been in kind of a weird mood for the last, like, week and a half, since their big sleepover. 

Max and El had been the only ones to realize that Billy had slept in Steve’s room--maybe even in Steve’s _bed_ \--that night; all the boys had been asleep by the time Billy carried him upstairs. Max thought it was _romantic,_ that Billy had fallen asleep in Steve’d bed alone that morning and fell asleep with Steve in it that night, and she had wanted to say something about it, but El had pinched her, _hard,_ on the drive home the next morning, and she and El had both agreed not to talk about it when the boys were around without ever really saying so out loud. 

It was pretty obvious, she thought, that Billy and Steve were _perfect_ for each other. Maybe Billy was an asshole when they’d first met, and he’d _definitely_ been an asshole when he’d punched Steve’s face in, obviously, but he's, like, a much better person now, and he and Steve are really just like two sides of the same coin or whatever. Steve’s a lot more comfortable talking about his emotions and stuff, like, there’s a _reason_ Dustin sometimes calls Steve the party mom, but he and Billy are both really protective of the people they care about, and they both get this weird haunted look in their eyes sometimes. And they’re both funny, and they both hate it when anyone points out how much they care about shit. 

It’s funny, how sometimes when the two of them are in the same room, Billy will look at Steve all _wistful_ or whatever, like he’s some girl from a Jane Auston novel or something, like he’d like nothing more than to hold Steve’s hand and tell Steve he’s pretty, and then Steve will glance over at Billy and Billy pretends he’s not looking, so he doesn’t see the same gross love-struck look on Steve’s face. 

So, anyways, it’s obvious that they’re, like, basically in love already, and she’s pretty sure they’re _never_ gonna do anything about it unless someone else _makes them_. It’s, like, all she’s thought about other than Dig Dug and Lucas and her algebra test and whether Will’s being quieter than he normally is, which she _can’t tell_ because she didn’t really know him before he had that horrible parasite thing but now she also _can’t stop worrying about it_ because what if something else _is_ wrong but he’s not saying anything?

When they get to the dance, just about everyone else is already there; Nancy and Jonathan are, like, actually chaperoning or whatever, and Will and Mike are having some quiet argument about some D&D mechanic that Will (and Max, she’s pretty sure) thinks is fucking _dumb_. El goes over and picks up Mike’s hand, blushing a little all pretty, not like Max who turns bright red at the littlest things and can’t stop blushing for about _six thousand years_ because she’s so embarrassed about how pale she is. Mike looks at her adoringly, which is still _pretty fucking gross_ because _he’s_ pretty gross if she’s being perfectly honest but also, like, unbearably cute, somehow. Will smiles and nods in Max and Lucas' direction, so they walk over. 

Mike hasn’t really stopped making his point about following the rules the book provides, so he and Will are arguing about spell slots versus spell points, and she’s _so_ ready to argue with Mike about it because he’s _wrong_ , spell points are the way to go especially if you have a shorter list of spells like she does as a druid. Sometimes she thinks about the kind of shit she has _real opinions_ about now and is pretty sure her eighth-grade self would, like, bully the shit out of her now self. 

There’s the _click-whirr_ of a camera, and _great,_ now Jonathan has _another_ photo of her looking all pissy and argumentative with her mouth open, probably. He’s started developing all of those photos and giving copies to Lucas, who tacks them up on the wall of his room like he thinks she’s _cute_ when she’s pissy and yelling. It’s kind of sweet, even though she’d never in eight bajillion years _ever_ admit to _anyone_ that she actually really kinda likes it, that he likes her fire and her dramaticness and stuff. He calls her a _firecracker_ , and he doesn’t mean it like everyone else who makes jokes about her red hair. 

“Quit fuckin’ _arguing_ and let Jonny-boy here take some photos,” Billy snaps as he physically moves Max away from Mike. 

“Dustin’s not here yet,” says Will, and Billy smiles at him real nice, like he means it even. 

“They’ll be here soon and we’ll take group photos, but I think everybody’s mom is gonna want about five hundred photos of all of you guys and if we don’t start now, you guys’ll never get to go hold each other’s hands and sing along to Cyndi Lauper or whatever.” Billy sounds a little pissy, still, but he’s not mad at anyone, it’s clear. They’ve all gotten pretty good at figuring out when Billy’s pissed at one of them and when he’s just _grumpy_ , like he’s a tiger in a too-small cage or something. 

Jonathan starts telling everybody where to move and stand and stuff, and Nancy’s like his little assistant or whatever, making sure all the boys’ collars are laying flat and that El’s lipstick isn’t smudged or whatever. It’s nice, really; her mom’s always, like, _proud_ of her, but she never really makes a fuss about things like this, never brings the camera to stuff. She gets a photo with her arm around Lucas and one with Billy where she’s pretty sure he’s gonna look like he’s half a second from giving her a noogie, mostly because he _is_ , and a few with El, smiles shining out of their faces like the sun or something. 

Finally, once they’ve gotten photos of just about every possible configuration of people possible, Dustin comes running up, huffing, Clementine from Max’s English class trying her best to keep up with him in her fluffy purple dress and teeny tiny little high heels. Clem’s, like, _pretty fucking cool_ , Max thinks; she’s smart as hell and even though she’s a little quiet, she doesn’t let Dustin run his mouth all the fucking time. She’s got little brothers she has to watch after school, so she can’t always hang out, but she’s been sitting with them at lunch now. She’s already helped Max raise her grade from a C to a B, which is pretty gnarly.

“HI, sorry, STEVE couldn’t find Clem’s house even though I gave him GREAT DIRECTIONS,” Dustin yells, and Steve, walking up behind them like a _normal human person_ , smacks Dustin across the back of his head, gently. Dustin’s got his hair gelled up all nice, and Max is surprised to see how nice he looks, honestly. Normally she and Dustin are tied for _Most Likely to Look Like They Had A Fight With a Tornado_ , as Steve has said on more than one occasion, but they both look nice tonight. _Hell yeah._

Steve looks nice, too, Max figures, if you like that clean-cut kind of thing. _Billy_ clearly does, if the way his eyes get all dark is any indication. He’s wearing one of his horrible dad sweaters, but it’s dark green, like the trees in the forest or something; it makes his little moles and stuff stand out. He’s also got on jeans, which is pretty rare for Steve unless he’s got on that awful pair Max secretly thinks are eerily similar to a pair her mom has. Billy looks like he’s _starving_ , even though Hopper had made them tacos before they got dressed earlier. _Gross_. 

“If by _good directions_ you mean you got me into her neighborhood and then proceeded to not tell me any of the turns until we had _already passed them_ , then yeah, you gave me _the best_ directions, bud,” Steve says, all calm, and Dustin flushes a little and grabs at Clem’s hand like it’s some kind of lifeline. It’s cute. 

“WhatEVER, anyways we’re HERE so let’s take photos, Steve PROMISED my mom that he’d make sure Jonathan took good photos of everybody together.”

“This is El,” Max says to Clem conspiratorially, “she’s _homeschooled_ but she’s pretty rad.” El winks at Clem, which is _amazing_ and Max is _so glad_ she taught El to wink at people when she’s first introduced, it’s the funniest shit _ever_. Clem smiles back, puts out the hand Dustin isn’t holding, and El shakes it. 

“I like your name. Is it short for anything?” Clem says, all polite, “Or is it just Elle?”

“Just El,” she replies, a little short but surprisingly nice, all things considered. El doesn’t really like talking about her name, after she’d found out why people get uncomfortable when they find out it’s actually a number. 

Jonathan makes them all take photos _again_ , swapping out one person for another and then doing a huge round of group photos. It’s really fun, honestly, even if Jonathan does have to remind her before _every photo_ to keep her chin down.

“Wait, let us get one of you guys,” Clementine says after Jonathan looks like he’s finally done. She makes him and Nancy stand together, then makes the two of them and Steve and Billy take a big group one, and Billy must say something gross after they take a nice smiling one, because the other three break out into ugly, horrified laughs. Clem gets a photo of that, too, of them all happy and stuff even though they’re all so _sad_ , sometimes, like they have to bear the weight of what’s happened in Hawkins on their shoulders or something. 

Steve and Billy keep sneaking these _looks_ at each other, like they’re two halves of a magnet or something, like it’s _impossible_ for them to keep their eyes off each other but they don’t wanna get caught. It’s cute, really, and kinda gross in the same way seeing people’s parents kiss is gross but kinda nice. But also, if she’s honest, Max can’t watch them orbit around each other for too much longer before she just starts yelling _KISS!_ at them any time they’re in the same room. She’s pretty sure Billy _would_ actually kill her, then. 

Steve and Billy stay outside, presumably to smoke cigarettes and (probably) weed and _look at each other_ some more, but Jonathan and Nancy follow everybody into the gym. It looks really nice for once, the dumb balloon arch and the streamers making the room feel like a little snowglobe. 

Sometimes that’s how Max feels like she keeps the memories that are important, these scenes stuck perfect in her mind’s eye forever, and she can pick them up and shake the sand or the snow or whatever, but the people are all frozen. The day Billy’d given her her board is one of those times; she had dragged him out to the basketball court for a flat safe space to try it out and he’d laughed at her, his big real hyena laugh echoing over the park, as she fell on her ass about fifteen hundred times in a row. 

So they dance, all together in a huge clump while Brittney and Molly and Samantha, the popular girls or whatever, glare at them; the DJ plays _Material Girl_ and Max makes all the guys dance along and it’s _amazing_. El loves the song, too, and Max sends a quiet mental middle finger to Billy, who’s given her shit about liking Madonna _forever_. 

They _do_ slow-dance to _Time After Time_ , and Lucas leans in a little and whispers _I’m gonna do it now_ and kisses her. It’s nicer than she would’ve thought; she’s heard plenty of girls complain about too much spit and aggressive tongue action, but Lucas keeps it short and sweet, more than the little peck you’d give your grandma but not, like, a steamy kiss like the movies. It makes something start up in the pit of her belly, though, like the butterflies she gets sometimes when they hold hands but _way_ bigger. She’s pretty sure she’s gonna let him kiss her again, probably, like, whenever he wants unless the other guys are there to give them shit about it. 

“I’ve decided you can kiss me again,” she blurts out before she can stop herself, and turns _bright fucking red_. He laughs, kisses her again a little harder, and she has to hide her face in the crook of his neck before she _actually_ spontaneously combusts. She glances over at El and Mike, looking at each other all moon-eyed, and Dustin spins Clem around so he can make this horrible grimace at her and Lucas. 

“They KISSED!” he whisper-yells, and while Mike is blushing almost as dark as Max, El gives Dustin this killer look like _I could snap your neck right here, fuckface_. 

“ _Asshole,_ ” Clem hisses at Dustin, and smacks him hard on the shoulder. “Who are we to embarrass _young love?_ ” Dustin laughs at her all goofy; she wrinkles her nose at him like _I was serious_ and he sobers up. She cracks a smile, though, and they spin away all fancy. Apparently, Dustin’s mom signed him up for _cotillion_ out in Fort Wayne, so he can, like, actually dance. 

“We’re gonna make fun of him _forever_ for being such a good dancer, right?” Max says to Lucas as they sway back and forth. 

“ _Obviously_ ,” he replies, and they laugh themselves sick. 

They have to leave at nine-fifteen to get everybody home, but the dance is only supposed to go until nine-thirty so Max isn’t really that mad. Nancy and Jonathan are swaying in the corner to some gushy love song as the Party (plus Clem) walks out of the gym, and Will and Mike make identical grossed-out faces. It’s _awesome_ , Max wishes she had a camera to remember this moment _forever_. 

Billy’s sitting in the passenger seat of Steve’s car when they get outside, and he’s got the worst case of heart-eyes Max has ever seen outside of a Looney Toons cartoon, listening to Steve talk about _something_. Dustin pulls Clem over to start banging on Steve’s window, and Clem rolls her eyes at him, but, like, she’s not _actually_ annoyed, it’s clear from the cute little smile at the corners of her mouth. It looks like Max is about to make a _third_ girl friend, which she’s honestly pretty excited about. 

“Okay, assholes, you’re all somehow fitting into our cars. Dustin, Clem, Mike, you guys are riding with me. Billy, you can fit Will in with Lucas and Max and El, right?” Steve says all confident, and Billy nods at him all sure. It’s kinda cute, seeing them boss everybody around together. 

“WHAT!” Mike yelps, which is a little much even for him, “Why does _everybody else_ get to go home with their dates and El and I have to be separated? We don’t even get to see each other at _school_ like the rest of these idiots. This is UNFAIR.” Billy rolls his eyes and starts cracking his knuckles all threatening behind Steve’s back. 

“Oh my god, you drama queen, it’s because your house and El’s house are in opposite directions, and Lucas and Will are on Billy’s side of town. Use that brain’a yours, dipshit,” Steve says back, all attitude. Billy glares at Mike over Steve’s shoulder like _shut your mouth, numbnuts_ when he opens his mouth to keep arguing, which Max is, like, _pretty sure_ Steve would be mad about if he knew, but Mike should have thought of that before he was an _asshole_ to her for, like, two months, so she doesn’t say anything. The look on Billy’s face is so poisonous that Mike’s teeth click together, his mouth closes so fast. 

They all say their goodbyes messily and loudly, exchanging high fives and yelling over each other and stuff. El looks at Mike like they’re Romeo and Juliet or something, her eyes all wide and wet, and Max just, like, _can’t_ deal with that right now. She goes over to hug Clem goodbye so she doesn’t start retching.

“You’ll have to come to our sleepover next time!” Max exclaims, and Clem looks _so excited_ to be invited. 

“That’d be _awesome_ , you guys are so fun!” she says back, and Max definitely has a new girl friend, nice. 

Billy drives them home seeming like he’s in a better mood, thank _god_ , probably because he got to listen to Steve talk about nothing for two hours, and Billy never looks happier than when he’s in Steve’s presence. He drops off Lucas first, watches to make sure he gets in the front door okay, and waves back at Mr. Sinclair when he opens the front door. It’s almost like Billy’s a _real person_ , finally, and Max is so proud of him, honestly. 

When they get to the Byers’, Billy and El troop up to the porch with Will while Max stays in the nice warm car, thank you very much. Mrs. Byers exclaims about El’s outfit and eyeliner and everything, and thanks Billy for bringing Will home, apparently; Max isn’t _exactly_ sure but she’s not gonna roll down the window to check, are you _kidding?_ It’s like negative fifty outside, she’s from _California_.

On the way to the cabin, Max takes, like, a whole second to think about Billy’s weird mood. _He’s_ the one who turns down the radio, turns down _Joan Jett_ , which is basically blasphemy in his world, and she's not even yelling like she usually is when he turns it down; he’d seemed almost back to normal, sitting in the car with Steve, or, like, as close to normal as he can get, the weirdo, but now he’s all quiet and has this teeny little frown on his face. He’s probably just, like, _pining_ after Steve, and a lightbulb flicks on in her head. She’s gonna _get the boys together._

When they get to the house, Hopper’s there to exclaim over their outfits and laugh at their stories about Dustin’s dance prowess and stuff. Max stops herself about a half a second before she tells Hopper than El kissed Mike, and she can _feel_ gratitude radiating off El. 

She and El go to change, get ready to watch horrible movies and eat the junk food Max is, like, eighty percent sure is somewhere in this house, and when they come back into the living room, Hopper and Billy are having this weird, like, standoff. Billy’s holding this nice coat, like, a _real_ winter coat, in one outstretched hand, waving it at Hopper like he’s trying to ward off a vampire with a crucifix or whatever. 

“I’m not some _charity case_ ,” Billy snarls at him, a little feral, and El goes over and grabs Hopper’s hand, glares at Billy like he’s being an asshole. 

“It’s a _gift_ , kid, we can say it’s for Christmas or something, _shit_. I’d just rather not have you get frostbite or pneumonia or something, wandering around at parties in the dead of fuckin’ _winter_ in a leather jacket, idiot!” Hopper sounds defensive, a little bit, and there’s this look on his face like _what the hell kind of world do I live in?_

“I’m _not your fucking kid_ , quit treating me like it, _shit_ ,” Billy spits, and he grabs his leather jacket and leaves, slamming the door like an _asshole_. He hangs up the coat gently before he goes, though, so Max is pretty sure he’s not really _that_ mad. 

Max looks at El like _what the fuck do we do_ and El looks right back at her like _I don’t know, shit_ and Hopper slumps down on the couch, groaning, with his head in his hands. 

“He’s probably not _that mad_ ,” Max says, finally, after awkward silence fills the room like carbon monoxide or whatever it is that kills people without a smell or anything. “He didn’t take all his shit, and he hung up the jacket. He’s probably just...upset?” 

“I just wish I knew what to _do_ with teenagers, _jesus_. El, you better behave when you’re older, or I’ll probably go gray and die an untimely death.” She rolls her eyes like _whatever, old man_ , but she sits next to him on the couch, pats his shoulder, and gestures with her chin to the kettle on the stove. 

Max’s grandma has that thing, too, where she thinks everything can be cured with a hot enough, strong enough cup of tea. Whatever, it can’t hurt. Eventually, Hopper sighs and leans back, looking like he’s going to keel over from exhaustion at any moment. El shoves a movie in the VCR and _The Secret of Nimh_ starts. She wishes El would try, like, _any_ other movie; honestly, the rats freak her out a little. But if that’s what makes El feel safe, feel normal, to see other people (or rats, _whatever_ ) who’ve been experimented on and go on to be good people or something, then who is Max to argue? 

Once Hopper falls asleep on the couch, before the little mouse even gets to the creepy fucking owl in the forest, she and El creep into El’s bedroom. She explains her _brilliant_ plan, and even though El has this dubious look on her face, Max pulls the _normal kid who’s seen way more romantic comedies_ card and they get on the walkie talkie. 

“Lucas, come in, over” Max barks, and she’s barely got her hand off the call button before he’s murmuring back. 

“ _What_ , Max, I was _trying_ to sleep,” he complains, voice all tired and cute, and a thrill runs through her. “Over,” he adds belatedly. Fucking _nerd_ , she thinks, smile growing on her face. 

“Meet me on channel 3, I need your help planning,” she says, and before she can finish the thought almost, she adds, “None of the rest of you guys, though, it’s a secret I’m not allowed to tell you. Over.” She clicks over to channel three, waits for Lucas to jump over too. 

“What kinda half-baked thing are you plotting now, Max?” Lucas asks, and even though he’s trying to sound annoyed, she can tell he’s not actually mad. 

“We’ve _gotta_ get Steve and Billy together. I’m _so tired_ of Billy moping around like somebody killed his puppy, and I’m pretty sure Steve’s been doing the same friggin’ thing. They’re, like, _basically in love_ , and they’re making themselves miserable. It’s _disheartening_. Uh, over.” She’s, like, eighty percent sure she used that word right; Steve gave her a word-of-the-day calendar a while ago, after he’d decided he wasn’t gonna take the SAT, and _disheartening_ was one of the words last week. 

“WHAT!” Dustin yells through the line, and she’s gonna punch him in the nuts the next time she sees him. 

“Dustin, I _explicitly_ asked that you not join in, so are you a nosy little asshole or are you just an _idiot?_ ” Max sighs, but it’s not like he doesn’t know about Billy, and she’s not even sure _Steve_ knows about Steve, so she’s not, like, outing anyone today. 

“ _Secrets secrets are no fun, unless you share with everyone,_ ” Dustin sing-songs, and Max is already thinking of new ways to torture him. “But really, _why_ do you think Steve’d go for a mouthbreather like your brother, Mad Max?”

“Listen, I don’t _know_ why exactly and I’m not gonna _speculate_ , that’s GROSS, he’s my BROTHER you heathen,” she yells into the walkie-talkie, and El makes the executive decision to take it out of her hand before Max can decide if she’s gonna throw it against the wall or not. 

“Okay, okay, all I’m saying is that--” Dustin starts to argue back, but Lucas interrupts him before he can dig his grave any damn deeper. 

“I think Max is right, about Billy and Steve being all gay for each other or whatever, but this is a stupid idea, Max. Billy’s gonna _murder you_ if he finds out, over.” Max takes about half a second to consider this, and it’s honestly probably true, but Max is a woman of _action_. 

“Doesn’t matter, he won’t actually kill me, I’m like, ninety percent sure,” she says, confidently. “So here’s what we’re gonna do...”

_________________

Steve’s sitting in his car outside his house. He could go inside, but Nancy and Jonathan and Billy’ll be here soon, and Nancy will probably wanna drive the Beemer, so there’s no point letting it get cold. He should probably run inside and get a different sweater though, at least; cashmere stains like a _bitch_ , and he usually runs hot, especially when he starts drinking. Plus, he’s _not_ gonna get drunk off keg beers or some terrifyingly neon punch if he can help it, and his dad’s liquor cabinet isn’t locked. 

Idly, he wonders if Billy likes the good stuff, if he prefers shitty beer. You can drink a lot more shitty beer before you get _drunk_ drunk; it’s why Steve is the former Keg King, because even though you get fucked up on beer eventually, it takes a lot longer. Beer makes him feel like _shit_ the next day, for whatever reason, and tequila doesn't, so.

The playlist Billy made him is in the tape player. It’s probably the weirdest mixtape he’s ever received, other than Kali’s. It starts out with pretty much exactly what he’d expect, a few songs making fun of Steve’s new wave taste and a some rock and metal and stuff, that funny fucking ZZ Top song about girls and cars. The B side, though, makes Steve almost consider the possibility that Billy’d picked the songs on it for a reason, like he’s trying to _tell_ Steve something. It starts out with this song Steve’s pretty sure is, like, a demo or something; it sounds like somebody recorded it live. _My honey, my baby, don’t put my love upon no shelf,_ the guy wails, and Steve _gets that_ , deep in his soul, wants to say the same thing to Billy. There’s some new rock kinda stuff next, the kind of thing he’s pretty sure the VJs are calling college rock, and Steve likes it a lot, too. 

Then there’s that weird return to hard rock, AC/DC singing some song about handjobs and Joan Jett complaining _I think of you every night and day_ and Mick Jagger yelping about living in New York or something. Steve’s, like, _pretty sure_ he’s supposed to get something about Billy from this, supposed to understand the message Billy’s trying to send. He recognizes the name of the band who plays the next song from Billy’s t-shirt; it’s not what Steve would have expected Billy to be into _at all_ , really. 

The last two songs are the weirdest, though. _Beast of Burden_ ’s a great song, of course, the anthem of all the poor people who get treated like dirt by their would-be lovers, and Steve finds himself crooning along, _am I rich enough? I’m not too blind to see_ , trying to figure out what the _hell_ this all means. Plus, the last song is Joan Jett again, and Steve feels like he has whiplash, comparing _I Hate Myself for Loving You_ to _Crimson and Clover_. He feels that way every time he listens to this tape, like he’s missing some big piece or something, like he can't see the forest for the trees. 

He pretty much hasn’t stopped listening to it, since he got it; Dustin keeps bitching about _how tired he is of listening to the same twenty songs,_ Steven, _just put Hits 99.7 back on for god’s sake!_ but, since Dustin isn’t driving, he has no veto powers. Steve’s gotten very good at ignoring Dustin, for self-preservation if nothing else, so his overdramatic, wheezy sighs don’t even phase Steve anymore. Plus, since Steve’s _great_ girl advice helped Dustin get a date to the dance, Steve has a little bit of leverage on him anyways.

Billy’s been kind of avoiding him, since the night he slept over. Steve had woken up to Nancy shaking him that morning, pulling his hair a little bit, and Billy had avoided his face all morning, had hurried the girls out the door without so much as a goodbye. The only person Steve’s been able to talk about it with is Nancy, which is getting _really old_. 

 

“I just think you should I dunno, _talk to him about it_ , like an _adult_. He seemed like it wasn’t a hardship, cuddling you, even though it was probably hotter than the surface of the _sun_ with you two furnaces sleeping next to each other. Like, what’s the worst that could happen, really?” They’d been sitting in study hall together on Monday afternoon, whispering while Mrs. Mosely napped up front, and Steve had woken her up, dragging his chair out so he could get the hell away from Nancy. She hasn’t stopped needling him about it, but if Billy doesn’t wanna talk about any of this, Steve’s pretty sure any conversation they have is just gonna, like, break his heart. It’s his self-preservation instincts that keep him from doing anything about it; he and Billy can still, like, be around each other, even if Steve has a big gay (bisexual?) crush that he doesn’t know how to handle.

So he lets Billy sit at their lunch table, make conversation with Jonathan and Nancy so well that neither of them really notice Billy isn’t speaking directly to Steve at all. He lets Billy make jokes about the kids and even offers his house up for all of them to crash at after the party. It’s not like they wouldn’t have done anything else, anyways, but now it’s official. Billy agrees all calm, and then Steve is paralyzed by fear for a day or so. 

What if Billy thinks Steve’s coming on to him? What if Steve has to sit awake through the night, knowing Billy’s sleeping in another room and not with him? It’s a fucking _nightmare_ , and he calls Nancy on Saturday to freak the fuck out about it. She makes encouraging noises at him, but they’re the same encouraging noises she makes at herself when she’s trying to get her eyeliner even, so he’s _pretty_ sure she’s not even listening. 

“What if I do something stupid? What if _he_ does something stupid?” Steve frets, trying to pick between a sweater and a button-up to wear tonight. 

“Well, if I know you, you’re going to do something stupid, and if I know _him_ , he’s also gonna do something stupid, so let’s hope your stupids line up. Okay, I gotta go, Jonathan’s picking me up in fifteen and I’m not even packed for later tonight, bye!” Nancy hangs up, and, weirdly, her no-nonsense shit about how they’re both gonna be idiots is a little calming. 

Billy comes and sits in his car, while the kids are inside the dance. Clearly, neither of them has anywhere better to be; there’s no point in going to the party now, not when they have to come back and drive kids around in two hours. 

Steve frantically pushes the eject button on the tape player when Billy taps on the window like _open the door, asshole_ so Billy doesn’t hear him playing the mixtape. He shoves in the first tape he grabs from the stack in his center console, and his heart fucking _drops_ when he hears what’s playing. 

_I wanna thank you girl, for teachin’ me brand new ways to be cruel_ , Dwight Yoakum croons as Billy opens the door and slides in, and Steve is, like, seventy-five percent sure he’s going to _die_. 

“You gonna go line dancin’ later, pardner?” Billy jokes in a _truly atrocious_ southern accent, and Steve blushes so hard he’s glad it’s mostly dark in the car. 

“Nah, it’s just that country’s got all the soul left in music, these days,” he drawls back, imitating his mom, and Billy laughs delightedly. 

“You’ve got an _accent,_ ” Billy exclaims, “I can’t _believe_ this, you’re a closet southerner, oh my _god_.”

“No,” Steve corrects, laughing a little, “My _mom_ has an accent, and I can imitate it just fine.” 

“Why do you live here, if your mom’s from down south?” Billy asks, and there’s a note in his voice that makes Steve think Billy actually, like, _cares_ , so he doesn’t brush it off. 

“My dad’s from here. He met my mom when he was down in Texas doing some, uh, speculating about oil or something? I don’t know, that’s not the most interesting part. 

“So my mom was this beauty queen, she was runner-up for Miss Texas when she was in high school, and my dad was meeting with her dad, my grandpa, to talk about making some kinda deal or getting some capitol or something. So my mom’s eighteen and taking a gap year before she goes to college and my dad’s a little older but only, like twenty-two so it wasn’t, like, creepy.

“They fell in love at first sight, basically, and even though my mom was supposed to marry some other oil guy’s son so they could have more money than god or whatever, she eloped with him. Her parents were so mad when she called home to tell them that they threatened to disown her, but she’s their only kid so they didn’t.

“We go see them every Easter, but they’ve never been this far north of the Mason-Dixon unless they’re going to New York or something. They say it’s _an uncivilized hellscape_ up here.” He laughs a little ruefully; his grandparents kinda stress him out, so he’s not exactly bummed they don’t come visit. His grandma does send him really nice button-downs, though, so it’s not _exactly_ a wash. 

“So your parents married for love?” Billy asks, a little bitter, but he covers it up with this big bright smile, “How _romantic_. Still got the oil money, though, that’s nice.” 

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Steve shoves at his shoulder, not very hard. “Yeah, and they’re so in love with each other they _can’t bear_ to be apart, so they’re almost never home, since my dad has to travel for business.” Billy opens his mouth with a look on his face like he’s gonna be an asshole about it, but snaps his jaw closed like he’s biting off his shithead comment. 

“Must be lonely,” he says instead, quiet and lacking his usual bravado. He rolls his neck, shifts his shoulders, and hops right back into his ladykiller thing. 

“If you ever need somebody to _warm up your bed_ , let me know,” he leers, and Steve rolls his eyes. _God_ , Billy’s so, like, _aggressively straight_ it grates on him sometimes, especially when he uses it to get out of, like, showing human emotions. 

They talk some more about country, and Billy makes some comment about how _at least ZZ Top_ is decent, and Steve--Steve can’t help himself. 

“There’s plenty more good country than ZZ Top; it seems like all they sing about’s girls and cars. I’ll have to make _you_ a mixtape now, give you some education on the greats.” It’s still dark in the car, but Steve’s, like, _pretty sure_ Billy flushes a little. He rubs the back of his neck with a hand, and Steve has to clench his fists to keep himself from reaching out to touch Billy, to pat his hand all comforting or do something else that’ll show his hand. 

“Oh, really? I would ask if you’ve learned anything from, uh, from my tape, but _clearly_ you haven’t, if this is the crap you’re listening to. You got a Madonna tape in here somewhere, too?” Billy jokes. And, like, _yes_ , he does, but he’s not embarrassed about it or anything. Madonna’s _fun_. 

“ _Whatever_ , Madonna makes fun music, sorry I like to _have some fun_ every once in a while.” He’s trying not to blush, but he’s pretty sure he’s failing miserably. “Your tape was great, though. I don’t know why you gotta tease me, though, I know you’re not a big New Wave fan, you didn’t have to put _Owner of a Lonely Heart_ on there, I know I’m a sad fucker or whatever.”

“What? I would _never!_ ” Billy exclaims, like he’s actually _offended_ , but the glimmer in his eyes shows that he’s joking. 

Steve hums his assent, sings along with Dolly Parton under his breath. It’s _Dumb Blonde_ , and Billy laughs a little, listening the chorus. 

“So you weren’t just trying to call me dumb, that day,” he says, “Just imply that my man was cheating on me and I knew it?”

“No!” Steve yelps, and he’s kinda happy to have a chance to explain it to Billy directly. “It’s just...Dolly’s, like, made a career out of people thinking she’s dumb and then turning around and rubbing their noses in her success. And, like, you act stupid all the time, even though I _know_ you’re constantly competing with Nancy to have the highest GPA. It just--it just, uh, made sense at the time I guess?” Billy nods slowly, like he’s considering it, and a smile peeks at the edges of his mouth.

“Well, knowing how much you like Dolly makes that a compliment, I guess. Don’t go around calling me dumb, though.” Billy’s voice is fond, and this is probably the longest, least aggressive conversation they’ve ever had, at least just the two of them. 

“So, you planning on getting _shitfaced_ tonight at this party, or is that just me?” Billy asks, and he sounds like he’s trying _really hard_ to keep his voice light. Steve can hear the serious note in it, though, but he doesn’t press. Billy’s like a wet bar of soap or something; the second you try to get a firm grasp on him, he slips away.

“I mean, probably, what else better is there to do? Plus, since Nancy’s driving, it’s not like I’ll get stuck in a snowbank and die, wandering home dead drunk. Best case scenario, honestly.”

“You gonna try to get your Keg King title back, _King Steve?_ ” Billy’s _actually_ joking now, Steve’s pretty sure. 

“Nah, I don’t really like beer, but it was what was expected, you know, all that bullshit. I’m happy to let you keep the Keg King title, since it means I get to drink tequila instead.”

“Well, you know what they say about tequila,” Billy starts, and just then the kids come streaming out of the gym, crowd around their cars. Mike gets all pissy because _he_ doesn’t get to ride home with El, which, what does he think this goodnight thing constitutes? Steve lets them sneak a kiss (which is new, he figures by the way El blushes a little and everyone else looks away really obviously like _let the young lovers kiss in peace_. It’s really fucking funny, honestly.) and then herds the kids into the car. 

Dustin hops out when they get to Clementine’s, offers his arm and walks her up to the door. He starts talking, looks like he’s floundering, and finally, she leans over and kisses him, real sweet, on the cheek. She waves bye to the car and goes in the house, and Dustin looks all woozy or something, like he’s twitterpated or whatever his mom says. 

“Oooooooh,” Mike goes, like he’s implying something, and Dustin reaches up from the backseat and smacks him across the back of the head. 

“ _You’re_ just jealous that I got a kiss on the first date and it took you, like, a year and a half to get some,” Dustin says back, all proud and happy, and they get into a little slapfight until Steve reaches over with his free hand and separates them. 

“ _Steve_ ,” Dustin moans, “I’m glad you’re branching out from the same _twenty songs_ finally, but can we _please_ listen to something _a little cooler_ than country, oh my _god_.” Mike pokes the eject button and switches it out for the first tape he grabs, which just so happens to be Billy’s mixtape. Steve and Mike cackle with laughter while Dustin complains all the way to his house. He waves to Mrs. Henderson, who’s in her robe and curlers, and then he pulls out to drop Mike off. 

“Do you think we can trust Billy?” Mike asks out of nowhere, and Steve’s surprised; the question seems to have come out of nowhere. 

“Uh, yeah I think so, why?” he asks, trying to keep the intense curiosity out of his voice. 

“Well, El really likes him, and so does Max, obviously, but he did just _wreck you_ , like, a few weeks ago, really, so, like, what if he does it again? He’s an unknown variable, and I’m not sure I want unknowns in the party, you know?” Mike must be serious about this, then; Steve hadn’t been inducted into the party for, like, eight months, and even then it was on a provisional basis and he’d had to sign a fucking _contract_. 

“I don’t think he will. He’s not in the same situation he was in, then, so he has less to fight about, and now that he knows about what happened, he gets it. You said yourself that he told you he wouldn’t’ve done it, if he’d known why I was acting like that.” Steve’s trying to be rational, trying to reason it out for himself. He wants to trust Billy, wants Billy to trust him, but sometimes Billy gets this wild look in his eyes that _scares_ Steve, especially because he _knows_ Billy doesn’t exactly have healthy ways to deal with his wildness. 

“Okay, I guess you’re right,” Mike says, sighing. “Have a good night, Steve, don’t get too drunk or my sister’ll kill you.” With that, he gets out of the car, waves. Steve waits until he gets inside, then points his car towards home, or the approximation of it that he has right now, mind stuck on why Mike would think about letting Billy in the party so soon. 

 

So now he’s sitting in his car in front of his own house, headlights turned off, listening to _Slow an' Easy_ and thinking about Billy, which is what he’s doing, like, ninety percent of the time anyways now, when Billy raps on his window. 

“Hey, King Steve, you gonna let me in your castle? I’m fuckin’ _cold_ and my bag’s heavy.’ Billy gestures to the duffel hanging from his left shoulder, which is loaded down with what Steve’d bet is a case of beer and looks uncomfortable. 

Steve fumbles his key out of the ignition, fucks up getting the key into the deadbolt on the front door a few times before he finally slides it home.

“Sorry, I was just...zoning out,” he apologizes, flicking the lights on as he walks through downstairs. He usually leaves a light on when he leaves, _just in case,_ but he’d been running on auto-pilot on the way out the door. 

“You’re fine, I’m just a big titty baby,” Billy says self-deprecatingly. “Where should I put my stuff down?”

“Uh, anywhere’s fine, doesn’t really matter.” He feels like he’s a half-step off some dance he doesn’t know, like he has _no idea_ what to do next, so he just opens his mouth and hopes whatever comes out is, like, a normal person thing to say. “I’m gonna go change, you’re more than welcome to come hang out upstairs with me.” Well, he thinks a little distantly, it’s not, like, the _weirdest_ thing he could’ve said. He walks into the formal living room, opens the liquor cabinet with the key that’s taped to the side of the end table, pulls out the tequila. 

“You want something? My mom can’t stand the smell of vodka, so we’ve got Malibu and whisky and bourbon and, uh, tequila,” he finishes lamely, holding up the bottle in his hand like Billy’s an idiot and can’t see the label. 

“Ooh, Jack,” Billy says, picking up the bottle of Jack Daniels and holding it up to the light. “Won’t your parents notice their alcohol’s missing?”

“Nah, me and the housekeeper have an agreement that as long as I clean up any vomit, she’ll restock the liquor before my parents get back.” Steve licks a line up the back of his hand, sprinkles the fancy salt his mom has for when she wants to get wild and take shots and swigs directly from the Cuervo bottle. He licks up the salt, shakes his head a few times at the burn, and pokes around in his mouth with his tongue, trying to get the film of tequila off his teeth.

“Impressive,” Billy says with a raised eyebrow, taking a drink of the Jack and only wincing a little. “Wow, I forgot how nice it is to have decent liquor.” 

“What can I say? My parents have expensive taste,” Steve laughs humorlessly, turning to head up to his room. He hears Billy’s footsteps on the stairs behind him, and he remembers suddenly how it had felt, the first time Nancy’d followed him up to his room. He’s just being weird, probably, the liquor hitting him faster than usual or something, even though he’d made sure to eat enough food today to soak up plenty of alcohol. 

“You’re not gonna wear your nice sweater to the party?” Billy says, jocular, and Steve takes it off, throws it at Billy. 

“Nah, cashmere’s a _nightmare_ to clean puke out of, and nobody there would appreciate it even if I _did_ wear it.” He rummages through his drawers shirtless, finds the rugby shirt his mom brought him from London that makes his skin look _great_ and throws it on. He’s not exactly looking for somebody to hook up with tonight, but he’s not _not_ looking, either, so he figures he’ll put in a little effort. 

“You know, I used to use this line all the time, I’d ask somebody if they--if _she_ knew what my t-shirt was made of and when she didn’t, I’d say _boyfriend material_. I feel like it woulda gone over way better if I’d been wearing something this soft.” Billy sounds kinda dreamy, distracted, and Steve can’t look at him, holding Steve’s sweater in his broad hands with a smile playing across his face; he wants Billy so bad it _hurts._

“That’s funny, especially because I’ve never seen you stick with a girl long enough for her to call you _boyfriend_ ,” Steve muses from the en-suite where he’s messing with his hair. 

“Well, the girls around here aren’t exactly my _type_ ,” Billy says, and Steve hears the liquid sound of a bottle tipping. He’s pretty sure he can hear Billy swallow, and he just--doesn’t know what to do with that, so he goes for the tequila bottle. Billy’s fucking around with the record player in the corner of his room, and when he drops the needle on the record, Prince echoes out, _dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life_. 

“I need a lime,” Steve says out of nowhere; it’s not exactly true, but he _can’t stand_ watching Billy prowl around his bedroom, shaking his hips in time. “You wanna coke or somethin’?”

“Yeah, actually,” Billy says from where he’s looking at the trophies on the shelf above Steve’s dresser, “thanks.” He makes no move like he’s gonna follow Steve downstairs, so Steve heads down alone, nearly chops his finger off thinking about how good Billy’s ass looks in his jeans, how thick his thighs are. He doesn’t, though, and Nancy and Jonathan bust in the front door just as he puts one foot on the first stair. 

“Oh my _god_ I need a fucking joint, that was the most annoying music ever,” Jonathan complains, and Nancy pulls one out from behind her ear. He looks at her with love in his eyes, and Steve can’t help but laugh. 

“ _What?_ ” Nancy complains, all offended, “I’ve been practicing!” it does look a hell of a lot better than her last attempt; it’s even mostly straight. 

“Let’s go smoke it in my bathroom, I can turn on the fan and my parents’ll never know,” Steve offers, and Nancy looks at him sharpish.

“Where’s Billy?” she asks casually, and he rolls his eyes at her. 

“He’s upstairs, I was doing my hair and I didn’t wanna leave him down here with all the breakables,” he snarks at her, and she rolls her eyes right back. “Whatever, we can talk about this later,” she says, and they go upstairs together. 

Billy and Jonathan share the bottle of Jack, and Nancy takes a few drags of the j, but since she’s driving she says no to anything else. Steve’s eyes keep getting caught on Billy, breathing out smoke in slow waves. Steve tries to blow some smoke rings, but he keeps giggling in the middle of his exhale and fucking them up, which makes them all crack up. 

Nancy goes into the guest room to change, takes Jonathan’s button-up with her. She comes back in some slinky little top and a fun skirt, all these layers of net or something, like Madonna. Billy shucks off his shirt, too, but puts his jacket back on. Steve’s mouth waters, looking at the smooth skin of Billy’s chest, his abs contracting as he laughs at something Jonathan says.

“Alright, you guys have to take a shot with me,” Steve says a little too loud as they’re getting ready to leave. The party’s been going since, like, eight thirty, so they’re gonna be walking in to a party where they’ll have to catch up anyways. He lays out the fancy shot glasses on the counter, puts a wedge of lime on each one and fills them all right to the top, only sloshing onto the marble countertop once or twice. 

“Ugh, I need some salt if we’re gonna do tequila,” Jonathan complains, and Nancy passes him the salt shaker, offers up her wrist for him to pour salt on. 

“Ooh, body shots,” says Billy, still holding the bottle of Jack, “You gonna let me do one too, Stevie?” Nancy looks at him like _are you fucking kidding me, Steve,_ but Billy’s already tipsy, so it’s probably nothing. In California, they probably take body shots off each other _all the time_. 

Steve holds out his wrist, and Billy puts out his tongue and wiggles it on Steve’s skin, breathing hot and damp on his pulse point. Steve grabs for Billy’s wrist, the one not holding the Jack, and licks him right back. Nancy shakes salt over their arms, and Jonathan and Steve and Billy click their glasses together. Jonathan licks up his salt and takes his shot right away, but Steve and Billy both grab for each other’s wrists, only then realizing that there’s a logistical issue. 

“Uh, you go first,” Steve says, tongue thick with alcohol and want, and Billy puts his mouth on Steve’s wrist, laps up the salt like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and throws his shot back. 

“Here ya go, princess,” Billy says, pointedly, holding out his wrist. Steve tries not to be weird about it, tries to just lick him as quickly as possible, but he’s drunk enough that his body decides to nip at Billy’s skin before his mind can stop it, and Steve flushes bright red as he takes his shot, sucks on the lime without looking at Billy. 

“O-kay, alright, let’s go, shitheads,” Nancy exclaims, clapping her hands together, and herds them to the car. Steve’s holding his bottle of Cuervo and a little sandwich baggie of limes (he doesn’t trust anyone to bring limes to parties, and he hates throwing up mixers, so this is the best option, really.), but Billy walks out of the kitchen, comes back with the case of beer on one golden shoulder and a joint behind his left ear and no Jack in sight. 

“No jack?” Steve asks before he can stop himself, gesturing at Billy’s free hand.

“I don’t wanna share,” Billy says, eyes dark and voice rough with whisky, “at least not the good stuff.” Steve thinks for a second that Billy doesn’t just mean the jack, but there’s _no way_ , so he just follows Nancy and Jonathan out to the driveway. 

“Billy, where are your keys?” Nancy asks, and when he looks at her, all taken aback, she rolls her eyes, blows out a fondly annoyed sigh. “I wanna drive the Cammy, it looks _fast_.” 

“You better not fuck it up, if there’s one scratch on my baby I’ll kick your ass,” Billy postures, but he throws the keys in her direction anyways. 

They pile in the car, and the look on Nancy’s face is so funny, all envious and excited as she adjusts the seat, that Steve can’t help but think of the stupid fucking ZZ Top song. 

“ _She would do anything just to get behind the wheel,_ ” he sings at her almost on-key, and Billy busts out laughing, that hyena one he does when something’s _really funny_. Nancy looks confused, but she lets it go. 

“Alright, since I’m DD for the night, I get to make the rules,” she lectures, all serious. “So nobody leaves alone. You two in the peanut gallery back there are buddies, you _cannot_ wander off without your buddy. No pissing alone in the woods, no deciding to walk home by yourself, none of that shit.” Billy’s eyes turn serious, like he knows _exactly_ why she’s all uptight about this stuff. 

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and she shoots a look in the rearview mirror like _you’d better not be talking back_. Apparently, she sees something she likes in Billy’s face, because she smiles at him only a little hard-edged. 

“Steve, you too, no irish goodbyes, you _asshole._ ” 

“You get too drunk and decide to go home after a party _once_ and you get shit _forever,_ ” Steve sighs, but when she turns her glare on him, he relents. “Yeah, okay, I promise, whatever.”

“Good.” Nancy’s voice is firm, but fond. “Now go out there and have a good time, you drunkards!” She puts the car in park, and they all spill out of the car. 

The house is loud, but not, like, _noise complaint_ loud. It’s fucking _packed_ with people, all the kids who graduated last year and are home for Christmas break shoved in alongside all the kids at Hawkins now. Steve sticks pretty close to Billy for a while, doesn’t even drink for a minute because he doesn’t wanna get sick later and he realizes he needs to pace himself. 

Eventually, though, Tommy pulls Billy away to defend his keg king record out in the backyard, and Steve doesn’t follow him. It’s fucking _cold_. Jonathan and Nancy are dancing in the living room, and Steve goes to join them, yelling along with the rest of the room to Whitney Houston or whatever her name is, _falling in love is so bittersweet, this love is strong but I feel weak_. Nancy’s pointed look and the way she yells the lyrics at him don’t even break his stride. 

He gets hot after a while, wanders through the house in search of some fucking _water_. He stumbles into the kitchen, finally, but Billy and some guy Steve’s pretty sure graduated a few years ago are standing over the sink, holding beer cans with holes cut in the sides careful, so they don’t spill. 

“THREE...TWO...ONE...GO!” some girl yells, and Billy and the guy put their mouths over the jagged edges, turn their heads, and pop the tops of their cans. Steve watches Billy’s throat work, shotgunning beer like it’s his job, and when Billy throws his empty can in the sink first, laughing in triumph, all Steve can think about is licking up the beer running down his neck, kissing the PBR off his mouth. 

Billy sees Steve then, winks, holds out his arm in invitation. Steve walks over, feels like an iron filing caught in Billy’s magnetic field, and Billy’s arm drapes over his shoulders, _brands him_ with heat. Jesus, Billy _does_ run hot when he drinks. 

“How ya doin’, buddy?” Billy asks, beer-y breath hot in Steve’s face.

“Good, I need some water,” Steve says back, too overwhelmed with Billy’s closeness to say anything but the truth, and Billy uses his free hand, the one not curled around Steve, to search the cabinets for a glass. He fills it in the sink, slops a little bit of it down Steve’s front when Steve misunderstands what Billy’s trying to do and grabs for the cup, and clinks the glass against Steve’s teeth hard enough that, if Steve were sober, he’d be worried about chipping one. Since Steve’s a little south of tipsy, he just opens his mouth, drinks the whole glass of water in one gulp basically. 

“You wanna shotgun one?” Billy asks, gesturing to the unopened beers on the counter. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Steve answers, holding up his bottle of tequila. “Although it’s probably time for another shot, really.” 

“More bodyshots?” Billy says all sleazy, leans his head away from Steve so the column of his neck is exposed. 

“BODYSHOTS?” the drunk girl yells, and there’s a rush to clear the kitchen table. Billy untangles his arm from Steve’s shoulders, takes his jacket off and shoves it at Steve, then drapes himself over the table so he’s half-reclined, propped up on his elbows, holding the salt he must’ve found somewhere and looking up at Steve patiently. He’s so _pliant_ right now, Steve thinks before he remembers that’s not exactly the safest way to think about his straight guy friend. 

“C’mon, _princess_ ,” Billy drawls all lazy, like it’s a _dare_. Steve rolls his eyes, goes over and plucks the salt out of Billy’s hand. Billy grabs the baggie of limes, puts one between his teeth. He pushes his jacket out of the way, and Steve’s paralyzed at the sight of him, glistening with sweat in places, smiling up at Steve like _whenever you’re ready_. Steve pours a shot into the hollow of his collarbone, made more prominent by the way he’s sitting, and licks up Billy’s neck. The crowd of girls around them cheers a little, which is fucking embarrassing, but Steve just shakes salt on the line of spit. 

“DO IT!” some drunk girl shrieks, and Steve retraces the path of his tongue, tasting salt and beer and soft skin over hard muscle, slurps the tequila up, and bites at the lime. Billy doesn’t let it go, though, doesn’t let Steve step away; he bites down on the rind, and Steve’s _reeling_ by the time he finishes sucking the juice out of the lime and stumbles back. Mandy’s materialized next to him, and she pulls the tequila and the salt out of Steve’s loose grip, pushes Billy down flat on his back, and pours a shot in Billy’s belly button. 

Billy’s squirming, laughing at Mandy and something the other cute girl next to him must’ve said, and now that he’s not looking at Steve, Steve can finally break out of his orbit. Steve hangs Billy’s coat over a chair, leaves the scene of the proverbial crime, goes back into the living room and tries not to _lose his shit_. Madness is playing, which seems fitting to Steve, and he jumps up and down in the press of bodies for a while, loses himself in the music. He _can’t_ stop thinking about Billy, though, about how their lips had brushed just a little bit when Steve’d gone to bite the lime and the smell of Billy, a little sweatier than his usual smell but still so good and the way Billy’d melted a little bit when Steve’s mouth was on him. 

Tequila doesn’t usually make him horny; usually it just makes him wanna dance, but it’s like he’s been keyed up all night, strung out on Billy and tequila, and he doesn’t realize he’s pressing his hips on the girl he’s dancing with, Aubrey maybe?, until she looks back at him over her shoulder all flirty; all of a sudden, he comes back into his body, realizes he’s so worked up about Billy that he’s definitely sporting a stiffy. He smiles back, but pulls away, goes to find a bathroom or something where he can cool down. 

The first two he finds, one on the main floor and one upstairs, are both occupied, and the girls bitching about how long so-and-so’s been in there with so-and-so just make him feel more like he’s gonna burst into flames. There’s a basement, though, and he gets lucky enough that the teeny little bathroom is empty. He splashes his face with some cold water, looks at his pupils all dilated in the mirror, and despairs. What the _fuck_ is he gonna do, with Billy so close, touching him and smiling and _offering to let Steve take body shots off him_ , fuck? 

Somebody bangs on the door after a few minutes, though, and he pees really quick, flushes. When he opens the door, though, Billy’s the one on the other side, _of course_.

“I gotta take a piss,” Billy says apropos of nothing, “But wait right here, okay? Don’t leave.” He sounds a little desperate, whether from the need to pee or the alcohol or, like, _something else_ , Steve isn’t exactly sure. 

Steve hangs around, looking at the ugly fucking upholstery on the matched set down here. For some reason, nobody’s down here, all upstairs on the main floor. He hears the bathroom door open, but he’s still somehow surprised when Billy throws an arm around him again. 

“You havin’ fun?” Billy slurs, and _man_ he must be blitzed, if the glazed look in his eyes is any indication. 

“Yeah, you?” Steve says, grabbing the joint that’s somehow still behind Billy’s ear. He puts it in his mouth, and Billy fumbles for his lighter, nearly singes his own thumb trying to light the joint.

“Hell yeah,” Billy sighs, “Especially now that I found you. You know I didn’ get to take a body shot offa you,” he complains, and Steve’s shocked by how _earnest_ Billy sounds, like it really _is_ upsetting. 

“You didn’t do one off _Mandy_ or whoever?” Steve asks, is surprised to hear the bitter note in his voice. 

“Nah, she’s not my type,” Billy sighs, his head lolling against Steve’s throat. 

“Well what _is_ your type then?” Steve says before he can stop himself. 

“Smart, sweet. Dark hair. Moles are a plus,” Billy drawls, poking at the little mole on Steve’s neck, and, like, _what the fuck?_

“Uh...what?” Steve tuns to look at Billy, and Billy presses a kiss to his mouth. It’s like, objectively a little bit gross; Billy’s _pretty fucking steamed_ , and there’s a lot of beer-and-tequila spit happening, but it’s _Billy_ , so Steve still gets a little weak in the knees. He can’t help but pull Billy closer by the collar of his jacket, and Billy grabs at his waist. Billy must kick it into overdrive, because all of a sudden Steve’s being kissed within an inch of his life, overwhelmed by _how good_ Billy is. Steve doesn't know how he's _ever_ gonna stop but just as he thinks so, Billy pulls away, eyes wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI babies, there has been a kiss!!!! I absolutely intended to break y'all's hearts this chapter, but I accidentally wrote too much so it'll be next chapter. Bless up for tequila, honestly, the unofficial sponsor of this chapter (and my whole career as a bartender). 
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes!**
> 
>   * The title of this chapter is from _Baby's Got Her Blue Jeans On_ by Mel McDaniel. It's a fucking BOP (even if it is a country song) and basically the message of the song is "My girlfriend's hot and it's not her fault y'all are staring." _Please_ go listen to it, you won't regret it. 
>   * Pretty much all the other songs mentioned in this chapter (other than Whitney Houston's chart-topping bop _How Will I Know_ ) are in Steve's mixtape, the playlist I linked last chapter.
>   * Billy and Steve's drinking habits are both based on my own; I pretty much only drink tequila these days, and I have been known to bring my own limes to parties and sometimes my own salt because I don't trust other people's lime situation. I am also, however, _deeply_ enamored with the idea of being a frat star and like to get drunk very quickly, and therefore I _LOVE_ shotgunning beer. There's no thrill like beating a frat boy in a shotgunning race.
>   * Me, while writing: Were beer cans thin enough in the eighties that you could shotgun a beer? Also me: whatever I can do what I want.
> 

> 
> I plan on having a chapter up by Tuesday!
> 
>  
> 
> **In the next installment: the ramifications of The Kiss; Billy acts out; the author is forced to reckon with the b-plot she set up several chapters ago.**


	12. break the silence with a screaming void (everything is alright)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which everything gets fucked up, mostly because human beings are incapable of talking to each other, and Billy lands himself in, uh, a not-good situation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi dear sweet babies!! 
> 
> This chapter is, uh, in a word, _brutal._ I didn't mean to make it so desperately and eternally sad, but, uh, these things happen I guess? I'm SORRY THOUGH!
> 
> That being said, I have some new, chapter specific warnings! There is discussion of the AIDS crisis again, but its nothing new or out of the scope of the discussion that's already happened.
> 
>  **Warning for DEATH OF A LOVED ONE:** None of the currently named characters die (and they won't I promise!!!), but this chapter does discuss the reality (as much as I understand it, having not lived through it myself) of taking care of a dying loved one. More spoiler-y details in the end notes. 
> 
> **Warning for MENTIONS OF SEX TRAFFICKING:** There's one blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to red flags for people who may be sex trafficked. More specific details in the end notes.
> 
>  **Warning for EMETOPHOBIA:** There is, for some reason, a lot of nausea and vomit talk in this chapter, not anything super specific re: the actual process of vomiting but a fair amount of discussion of the gross shit that happens in one's mouth post-vomit. Sorry babes!!
> 
> Happy (sad??) reading, dearies!

The only _real_ excuse Billy has for kissing Steve is that he’s drunk out of his _mind._ He’s got plenty of other excuses that probably only make sense to him because he’s so drunk, like: Steve looks so _sweet_ , flushed with liquor and running hot; Billy’s been sporting a half-chub for, like, _an hour_ , since Steve had licked up his neck and fought him for the lime; and, most importantly of all, _he fucking wants to_. 

Steve grabs him back, seems like he’s _into it_ or something, which is more than he’d expected, really. The idea that Steve might be _okay_ with this spurs him on, makes Billy wanna show Steve just how good Billy can be, and he pulls Steve closer, kisses him like he _means it._ As he does it, though, there’s a flash of warning from somewhere in the sober part of his mind; he really doesn’t wanna stop, but Steve’s _pretty drunk_ , and a little crossfaded now, too, and if Steve--if Steve _regrets this_ , in the morning, Billy might _actually_ lose it. 

He’s felt like he’s on edge for _days_ now, like he’s stuck in somebody else’s skin, somebody else’s _life_. Really, he’s felt like this, anger and anxiety and shit all roiling inside him like a storm deep in the pit of his belly, since the other day at Steve’s. He just _wants_ Steve, wants to devour him whole, and knowing that it would _destroy_ one of them and wanting it _anyways_ is what has him _so_ fucked up. 

Plus, Hopper’s been _up his ass_ , the past two weeks, always on him about college or responsibility or some shit, which, like, Billy’s already _got_ a dad, and look how well _that_ turned out. So he’s been all fucked up for so long about _everything_ , and he had already decided to get _shitfaced_ at this party, and Steve’s just been so electric all night that Billy can’t help himself.

They’d had a good conversation, like, a _nice_ conversation earlier, just the two of them sitting in Steve’s car, and it had given Billy this seed of hope, this vision of what things _could_ be like between the two of them. Half the time he and Steve talk, it feels like they’re flirting, and he’s already taken a few punches from Steve, but he doesn’t want to lose Steve, so he pushes Steve away.

He’s not scared, he tries to tell himself, looking at Steve’s wide eyes and wet mouth, open just a little like he’s _surprised_ , which is funny. He feels like he’s constantly looking at Steve, constantly up in his space, constantly moving towards him like Billy’s some fucking homing pigeon or something, hyperaware of where Steve is and what he’s doing. If Steve _hasn’t_ noticed that, he _must be_ straight. 

Billy braces for the punch, planting his feet; he closes his eyes, though, because being able to anticipate Steve’s fist is _a lot less_ important to him right now than not having to look at Steve’s face, all angry and grossed out. 

When Steve’s hand curls around the back of Billy’s neck, when Steve reels him in for another kiss that tastes like tequila and lime instead, Billy’s fucking _shocked_. Steve’s pushing him back, and the backs of his knees hit the low, ugly couch. He’s so surprised he can’t do much but fall back onto it, and Steve’s _still_ pushing into him, climbing onto his lap, hot and lithe.

“Are you--are you sure?” Billy gasps in between kisses, hands drawn to Steve’s hips, holding probably a little tighter than he ought with clumsy, drunk hands. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, the hand at the back of Billy’s neck tightening into the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling a little in a way Billy _loves_. Steve’s eyes are, like, pretty fucking glazed, but it’s easy for Billy to ignore Mark’s voice lecturing him in the back of his mind, _don’t hook up with somebody who’s not in their right mind_ , because he’s gonna take _any chance he’s got_ to have Steve squirming around in his lap, plus Billy's fucking _loaded_ too so it's not like he's a predator or something. 

Billy surges up and does his level best to kiss the hell out of him. He’s sighing real sweet, these little huffs of noise Billy licks right out of his mouth, already obsessed; Billy can feel his dick hard in his jeans, grinding down on Billy and the friction’s so good it almost hurts, these shocks of pleasure sparking in his blood. 

Steve’s hands are _all over_ Billy, shaking a little as he runs them across Billy’s abs and over his pecs. It feels _so good_ , to make out with somebody he’s _into,_ somebody who’s a little more solid muscle all over than the girls he’s been half-heartedly kissing since he moved to Hawkins. Billy’s trembling a little too, adrenaline and excitement and liquor coursing through him. He forgets sometimes, how nice it is to be touching somebody when you’re high, how every brush of fingers and scratch of nails and press of hot skin on yours feels so _immediate_ , like you’re going to burst into flames everywhere you’re connected.

He shoves his hands up under Steve’s shirt, rucking it up, and Steve makes a little noise that maybe sounds unhappy, but when Billy starts to pull his hands back, Steve presses his hands down like _stay right where you are_. Steve’s skin is so smooth, little moles scattered across his back and ribs. Steve wiggles, giggles when Billy runs his fingers across his stomach, and Billy finds himself making a mental note: _he’s ticklish_. 

The small, sober part of Billy’s brain keeps trying to get his attention, remind him how tequila can make people and how much it’s gonna _suck_ tomorrow, when Steve sobers up and realizes Billy’s the biggest mistake Steve could _possibly_ make, but he’s lost in mapping out Steve’s muscles, in tracing the lines of his ribs. He presses hot, wet kisses to Steve’s neck, tasting sweat and a little of the cologne Steve had put on earlier, a little tequila.

He’s sunk so deep into Steve that he almost doesn’t hear the _thunk_ of the basement door hitting the wall where somebody’s thrown it open. The noise pings in the sober part of his brain and he remembers they’re out in the open, out where _anyone_ could catch them; fear swims icy through his veins. 

“Wait, wait, _shit_ ,” Billy hisses, gently shoving Steve off his lap and onto the couch next to him, “Someone’s coming.” He’s running his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look a little less like somebody’s been pulling it. He adjusts himself in his jeans, not that he’s gonna be able to do a whole lot to hide it with his jeans as tight as they are, and looks over at Steve. He’s _beautiful_ , looks fucked out even though Billy hasn’t even really gotten _started_ with him, mouth swollen and red and a little slick. His eyes are faded, still, but he’s trying to get himself in order, too. 

“HEY, guys, were you hiding down here so you didn’t have to share the WEED?” Mary, that girl Suzette’s friends with who _hates_ Billy (unless she’s _shitfaced_ at a party, apparently) screeches, and the group of drunk kids who follow her down start half-yelling complaints. 

“Didn’t bring enough to share, sorry,” Billy says as he stands, bares his teeth at her in what he hopes she’s drunk enough to think is a smile. He grabs Steve’s outstretched hand, hauls him up, and pushes past the gaggle of people to go upstairs. 

“I think we’ve had enough of partying tonight,” Billy sighs; now that he’s not wallowing in Steve’s whole, well, _everything_ , he’s got enough presence of mind that the sober part of his brain’s arguments are starting to make sense. 

“Wanna go home, wanna _kiss you_ ,” Steve’s whispering in his ear, breath sticky-hot on his neck. Billy shivers, pulls away from Steve a little bit in a desperate bid for self-preservation. 

“Let’s get you home, _princess_ , so you can sleep off this tequila,” Billy says back, a little meaner than he means to. It’s funny, how he can be absolutely _blitzed_ one minute and suddenly feel so sober. He pulls Steve through the house, looking for Jonathan and Nancy. He finds them in the upstairs hallway, all up in each other’s space, murmuring and looking at each other all moon-eyed. 

“Let’s go, _somebody_ here can’t hold his liquor anymore, apparently,” Billy announces, and chivvies them all down the stairs. He’s still drunker than he wants to be, and he stumbles a little bit, missing the last step. Steve pulls on his hand to keep him upright, and Nancy gets out in front of them, gives Billy a thorough, searching look that Billy’s pretty sure means she has some idea what the fuck happened to get him in such a hurry to go home. 

They pile back into the car, Nancy surprisingly good at maneuvering the Camero around the other cars parked haphazardly in the cul-de-sac. The music’s turned down, _I don’t wanna lose your love tonight_ oozing out of the speakers, and Jonathan’s tapping along with the beat in the front seat.

“Eurgh, I feel sick,” Steve whines once they really get moving, and Billy pulls Steve close under his arm, gestures at Nancy to roll down the window. The frozen air kinda stings on his exposed skin, but Steve’s slumped against him, one cheek pressed to the skin over Billy’s heart, almost feverish he’s so hot. 

“You’re okay, princess, either close your eyes or look ahead at the road. If you blow chunks in my car, I’ll make you pay for the detailing, asshole, so let Wheeler know so she can stop the car if you really feel like you’re gonna.” He’s pretty sure his voice is a little too soft, a little too _nice_ , but he sure as hell doesn’t want Steve to be nauseous _and_ sad in his car. He hates sad drunks, and he gets the sense that Steve’s the kinda drunk who cries when they puke.

Steve makes this pitiful mewling sound, but closes his eyes and breathes real deep to fight of the nausea. He’s almost asleep by the time they get back to the house, drooling a little on Billy’s bare chest. It’s fucking _gross_ , but also, like, Billy just feels so warm and fuzzy when he looks down at Steve, eyes blinking slow like there’s no telling when he’ll drop into sleep. 

“Okay, drunkies, go drink some water and take a couple Advil, you’re gonna need it in the morning,” Nancy chides them as they walk into Steve’s fuck-off big house, Billy holding Steve up mostly. 

Steve doesn’t seem, like, _fucked up_ , just tired and drunk. Nancy stands in the kitchen, supervising as the two of them and Jonathan gulp cold water and throw back Advils like candy, and when they’re sufficiently hydrated, she shoos them all upstairs. She leaves the kitchen light on behind them, and he feels Steve relax a little when he glances back to make sure there’s some light downstairs. 

Billy leaves Steve to get undressed and crawl into bed, while he goes to grab the trashcan and another glass of water from the bathroom. If Steve really _does_ puke, at least he’ll have somewhere to do it without leaving the bed. Steve’s mostly asleep when he comes back in to put the water on his nightstand and the trashcan on the floor, but he puts an arm out of the covers, grabs for Billy’s hand. 

“Stay,” he mumbles, on the edge of sleep, and Billy--Billy _can’t_ say no, can’t resist one last chance to curl around Steve before he wakes up from this dream where Steve’s, like, _into him_. 

“Give me a sec,” he murmurs to Steve, and, when Steve makes that mewling, pitiful sound again, “I’m just gonna change into shorts, whiner.” He does, shucking his jeans and leaving them in a heap on the floor, pulls in the basketball shorts he’d had the forethought (the _hope_ , really) to bring with him out of his bag and on. He’s taking his socks off, perched on the side of the bed he can’t help but think of as his, when Steve rolls over, presses hot fingers into his side. 

“Alright, alright. Don’t fucking puke on me, though, there’s a trashcan over there for you if you need.” Billy shoves under the covers, bullies Steve onto his side and curls around him. Steve’s fucking _radiating_ heat, and so is Billy, realistically, so he sits up long enough to shove off the covers, wraps the sheet around the two of them, and sinks into sleep. 

He’s having a fucking _weird_ dream, like he’s in this inky blackness and some creepy old guy and some girl with a shaved head are running right at him, full speed, when he feels Steve sit bolt upright. By the time Billy’s fought his way into consciousness, Steve’s in the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Billy follows him in, runs a corner of the hand towel under cold water from the sink and puts it on the back of Steve’s neck. He’s shirtless, and there’s a flush spreading down his neck and across the back of his shoulders as he vomits. 

When it seems like Steve’s done, nothing coming up but trails of thick spit, Billy goes to get the glass of water, leaves the wet cloth on Steve’s neck. Steve’s alarm clock blinks _3:16_ at him, and Billy feels judged somehow by it.

“Sorry, s’gross,” Steve tries to say from his position crumpled on the bathmat when Billy comes back in, voice so hoarse it’s almost gone, and Billy feels that rush of fondness again, the bright spark of _something_ in his chest. 

“You’re gross, but it’s okay,” he teases, and Steve wrinkles his nose at him. “For real, I can’t tell you how many times Mark or somebody had to hold my hair back, back when _I_ was a titty baby who _couldn’t handle my liquor._ ” Steve smacks at his calf, too weak for it to even sting, and Billy laughs. 

“C’mon, princess, let’s brush your teeth. Your mouth’s gonna taste like a dead thing in the morning anyways, but it’s a million times worse if you don’t brush off the puke.” Steve holds out his hand, looks at Billy all pitiful like _help me, I’m dying,_ and Billy hauls him up, careful not to jostle him too hard. 

“Why you g’tta call me _princess,_ ” Steve grumbles as he fumbles for his toothbrush in the drawer. Billy helps him get some toothpaste on the bristles, waits until Steve’s brushing to consider his answer. 

“You make the funniest face when I say it,” he says finally. He still feels a little drunk, if he’s being honest, so he wipes the glass off where Steve’s gross, pukey mouth was on it and drinks another glass of water. He’s pretty lucky, doesn’t usually _get_ hangovers, but he also usually doesn’t mix liquor and beer _and_ weed, so he’s being a little cautious. 

“Fuck off,” Steve mutters through a mouthful of toothpaste foam, and spits into the sink all grumpy. “I’m not _royal,_ my parents are just rich and never home.”

“I know,” Billy replies, all _butter wouldn’t melt_ while he refills the glass, “but all that makes you is the princess, locked away in a tower until your prince comes to rescue you.” He hands Steve the water, goes back into the bedroom so he doesn’t have to look at Steve, still so handsome it _hurts_ even when he’s all clammy and red-faced from puking. Steve barks out a laugh, flicks off the bathroom light. 

“Whatever, asshole, I’m gonna start calling you _Ponyboy,_ see how you like it.” Billy laughs a little under his breath, curls up under the sheet. 

“Don’t get so uppity, princess, I’m Darry if I’m anybody,” he smirks, lays on his back with one arm pillowing his head. 

“You _do_ act like Max’s dad all the friggin’ time,” Steve says, curling up into him. “And don’t get any ideas, I’m just tired and drunk and I wanna cuddle.” 

“Mm,” Billy hums while Steve makes himself comfortable. “Whatever, Harrington, go to fuckin’ sleep, I’m tired.” If he lays there, listening to Steve breathe and thinking about how _nothing gold can stay,_ well, the only witness he would have is out cold, drooling on him again. 

 

He sleeps in fits and starts, can’t stay asleep for more than forty-five minutes. He doesn’t have any more weird dreams about that inky darkness, but once or twice he wakes up with the crackle of a burning church or the gleam of a switchblade in his mind. Around seven, Steve rolls over, molds his back against Billy’s side, and now’s probably as good a time as ever for Billy to go the fuck home. He keeps running over everything again and again, worrying at what happened last night like a loose tooth, and he just--he can’t _imagine_ any way that Steve wakes up and confesses his love and everything’s all _happily ever after_. 

Even if he _does_ , even if there’s some world where that’s even _remotely_ possible, Billy has a tendency to _fuck things up_. He’d fucked up the rhythm of his life for, like, two days, back in Cali and it had landed him in the hospital for a month _and_ forced Neil to move their whole fucked-up little family to the middle of nowhere. He’d fucked up here, once, and it should’ve landed him in fucking _prison_. He feels like some fungus, creeping from host to host and _ruining things_. 

He _can’t_ do that, not to Steve. He’s already done it to Max a little, the way she flashes her teeth sharp and calls people’s bluffs and _shoots people full of mystery sedatives_. The sharp edges she’s got now weren’t there when Neil and Susan got married; she’d learned them from him. Steve’s fucked up a little, yeah, but he’s not sharp-edged like Billy is, like Max is. Steve’s learned how to sand down those edges, to be vulnerable with the blunt points he’s got now, and Billy can’t take that from him, not when it’s what drew Billy in, what Billy’s so enamored with now. It’s _not fair_ , that he can’t have Steve, but life’s not fair, anyways, and he’d rather carve that self-same sharpness into himself _every day_ than do it to Steve even _once_.

Visions of Steve waking him up with a punch, of Nancy telling him that _Steve doesn’t want him there anymore and that he should probably just leave everyone alone_ in her soft, fake little _not sorry_ voice, of waking up to an empty house and a note that says _leave before I get home,_ keep rolling through his mind like thunderclouds, and he realizes how tense he is when Steve, still asleep, sighs, smacks his mouth and shoves back at him like _chill out_. 

He rolls away slow, careful when his feet touch the ground that there’s no creaky floorboards. He’s good at moving around places silently, has been since he was fourteen and realized that the easiest way to avoid Neil was to make sure Neil didn’t see or hear him. He doesn’t bother putting his shoes and socks and jeans back on, just shoves everything quietly into the duffel bag and heads to the door. He can’t help looking back at Steve, hair a fucking _mess_ and arms and legs starfished out, can’t help but creep over and lift the comforter back over him so he doesn’t get cold. It’s something nice he can do for Steve, before he fucks everything up again, like he always does. At the last second, he tiptoes over to Steve’s chest-of-drawers, grabs the soft, warm sweater Steve was wearing last night.

He finds his keys on the kitchen counter, and he stops long enough to grab another glass of water from the sink, to load the coffeemaker and put it on the stove so whoever wakes up first just has to turn on the burner. He’s not really hungover, exactly, although there’s a tightness behind his eyes that means he probably will be, later. He turns off the radio on the way home, can’t bear to hear Morrissey sing _I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does_ when he feels so _raw,_ like someone’s ripped off the outermost layer of his skin, like he’s one big exposed nerve and even the soft wool of Steve’s sweater rubbing against his skin _hurts_. 

When he gets to the house, it’s still and quiet, everybody inside still asleep, he figures. He smokes a cigarette in the watery, thin light of the winter sunrise to try to calm himself down, to try to create a thin protective layer over his soft, pink insides; it doesn’t really work, but he does feel a little less like he’s going to shake out of his skin. 

The girls are passed the fuck out in front of the TV, Max snoring like a bandsaw and El muttering under her breath like she usually does when she’s sleeping well. He crawls up the ladder, curls up in the blankets and sleeps. 

 

“WAKE UP!” he hears Max shriek about half a second before she jumps on him. He shoves her off, hears the hollow _thunk_ of a body part hitting the low rafters, and she yelps. 

“That was my HEAD, you ASSHOLE!” She pulls the blankets off him, pokes at him until he sits up. “WHY are you here, I thought you were supposed to be at STEVE’S all night and go get HANGOVER breakfast or something.”

“Fuck, Max,” he grits out, wincing at the brightness streaming in the windows and just how _fucking loud_ she is, “Inside voice, asshole. Leave me alone.” 

“NO, it’s TEN THIRTY AM IN THE MORNING, time to GET UP and EAT SOME BREAKFAST and TAKE ME HOME.” He’s, like, ninety percent sure she’s being louder than usual, just to piss him off. It’s working.

“Okay, _okay,_ fuck off and let me get up, _jesus,_ Max.” She rolls her eyes at him, but she climbs back down the ladder, leaves him alone to deal with his pounding head and dried out husk of a body. He’s _dying_. He crawls down from the loft, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and pees for _forever_. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Hopper chuckles as Billy drags his miserable body into the kitchen, chugs a glass of water and gratefully latches on to the mug of hot, strong tea El passes to him. 

“Ugh,” Billy grunts, unable to verbalize just how truly _awful_ he feels. 

“Tough shit, son,” Hopper says, and the twinkle in his eye makes Billy want to punch his lights out. Before he can force his body to wind up, though, Hopper turns to set a huge plate of eggs and bacon and canned biscuits dripping butter and jelly on the table for him. 

“I _love you,_ Hop,” he sighs, real grateful, and sets himself to eating his weight in carbs and fat and goodness. 

“I know, I know, I’m a man of the people,” Hopper smiles, putting another huge glass of water in front of him. “You musta’ had a good night, to feel this bad in the morning. Didn’t drive home still drunk, didja?”

“No,” Billy says through a mouthful of biscuit, “Woke up around seven n’wanted my own bed.” Hopper grins, even though Billy’s pretty sure only, like, three of the words he said were _at all_ intelligible. 

“Good on ya’, son. Hey,” he says, clearly changing the subject, “once you run Max home, will ya come by the station? I need some help over there, nothin’ too big. You’ll be able to handle it even if you’re still monosyllabic by the time you get there.”

“Mmph,” Billy manages, which is apparently enough of an affirmative for Hopper. 

“Alright, kiddos, I gotta go call parents and do damage control for the idiots who got arrested and ticketed and shit last night. El, you radio if you need me, but I’ll be home around three.” Hopper looks like he’s in an excellent mood, and Billy’s not sure whether it’s because he doesn’t have a herd of elephants stampeding through his brain or because Hopper had _definitely_ gone to the Byers’ last night (according to Joyce, who had looked just as happy last night when Billy’d dropped Will off).

Billy’s kinda expecting Hop to say something about last night, about their weird fight when Hopper had given him this really nice coat like Billy’s some fuckin’ _charity case_ that Hopper has to take care of, but Hop just pulls on his hat, whistles something that could _hypothetically_ be Otis Redding, and leaves. 

Billy feels kinda bad about the fight, really, but, like, here’s the thing: Billy’s been good at taking care of himself for _years_. He doesn’t need some old guy trying to, like, _parent_ him, just because he feels bad that Billy’s dad’s a fucking _asshole_. He can buy his own coats and watch his own back and keep himself in line. 

The fight hadn’t even really been about the jacket, if he’s honest; the jacket’s _nice_ , and Billy’s a little worried about how much Hopper spent on it, but really, truly, Billy’s chafing under Hopper’s expectations. Billy’s a white trash kid, he’s gonna be lucky if he gets to go to fucking _technical college_ , and Hopper keeps talking about _colleges_ and _universities_ like that’s even a _possibility_ for Billy. 

“Aright, Max, if you’re ready to shut the fuck up, I’ll take you home. Susan’ll worry, if you’re gone too long.” He feels marginally more human, but he’s _not_ about to get dressed like a real person when he’s still having trouble bending over to tie his shoes without getting hit by a wave of nausea, so he grabs sweats and a long-sleeve t-shirt, pulls Steve’s sweater over top of everything. He’s probably gonna regret it later, when he starts sweating out all his sins, but for now he’s a little cold. It’s the weather that’s making him shiver, he tells himself, not the piece of him he feels like he left in Steve’s bed. 

“I’m READY!” she yells up to the loft, and he winces again. 

“Max, _I swear t’God_ if you can’t keep your big mouth shut for the ride home I’ll drop you off in the middle of the fuckin’ woods, you’ll get lost and have to be adopted by deer or something. You’re already _basically_ a feral child.” She proves him right when she jumps on his back the second he gets off the ladder, clinging like a damn monkey. El’s _dying_ laughing, and he gives her a look like _please put me out of my misery, I beg you_. She ignores it, and eventually he shakes Max off. While they’re still rolling around on the floor laughing at what an _asshole_ Max is, Billy makes himself another cup of tea to go and stalks out to start the car, fishing around in the center console for his sunglasses. The snow makes everything so much more _painful_. 

He’s halfway down the drive before Max realizes he’s leaving without her, and she comes barrelling out of the house, bag bouncing around on her back and hair flying behind her as she curses at him. He slows to a crunching stop on the wet gravel, rolls down the passenger side window. 

“You gonna quit bein’ a shitstain?” he asks, as little venom in his voice as he can muster. “‘Cause if you can’t quit fuckin’ _yellin’_ , you can walk home.”

“Yeah, I’m done,” she says, closer to normal human volume than she’s been all morning. “It’s just _so funny_.” She hasn’t done this kinda thing, pissing him off just because he has a hangover and it’s her duty as a little sister to piss him off, since he was sixteen. She’d seen the black eye blooming on his face when she and Susan’d gotten back from the corner store to get Neil cigarettes and hadn’t said anything above a whisper the whole rest of the day, had brought him the frozen peas and about seventy-five glasses of Tang, orange powder muddying the bottom, and hadn’t ever teased him for being hungover again. Until now, _apparently._

“I’m glad _someone’s_ having fun,” he sighs, and unlocks the door. She bares her teeth at him in a smile and throws her bag in the back. _God,_ she’s so much like him it _kills him_ sometimes. It’s probably a bad thing to be proud of, because God knows he’s not the world’s best role model or whatever, but she’s already a hell of a lot better than he’s ever been. He’s _proud of her_ , he realizes with a sinking stomach. When did he get so fucking _maudlin?_ Steve must be rubbing off on him. ( _He was last night,_ the traitor part of his brain reminds him, and Billy has to shut that line of thought down _immediately_ before he can get all worked up and, like, start crying about it or something else fucking dumb.)

They drive to Neil’s house in relative silence, Max humming something Billy’s pretty sure is Madonna under her breath. He’s fighting back this horrible urge to, like, tell her how great he is, and there’s no way that’s happening. 

“How was the party?” she asks finally, right as he’s about to open his mouth and start saying stupid shit, _thank god_. 

“Fucking crazy,” he sighs, remembering how much fun it had been. “Steve got _fucked up_ on tequila, I beat, like, six frat guys from Saint Francis at shotgunning beers, and Nancy got us all home safe and everything.” 

“So nothing else exciting happened? Steve didn’t, like, _hook up_ with some random?” She’s weirdly probing, and he’s pretty sure he knows what game she’s playing. He still can’t help but get his dander up, though. 

“ _No,_ Steve’s out of everybody’s league around here, _who the fuck_ would he have made out with?” He glances over at her, sees by the triumph on her face that he’s shown his hand. 

“Just asking questions,” she says all fake-innocent, and he’s _never_ been so glad to see Neil’s house. 

“Get out of my car, okay bye pick you up Monday morning do your homework and shit,” Billy hurries her out before she can just ask any more telling questions. 

 

When he gets to the station, there’s only, like, three other cars there. Around here, they don’t just throw everybody into cells and figure out how old they are in the morning; they call kids’ parents at three am and make the kid explain why they’re getting a ride home from a cop. It’s funny, that Hopper had never _once_ called his dad, not even when they’d only been in town for a few weeks and Hopper’d caught him finishing a j out by the quarry. He’d given Billy plenty of fucking tickets, but Billy’s got them all paid off now, got them taken off his record and everything. 

So anybody they kept overnight must’ve been over eighteen or, like, _really fucked up_. There’s a few people in the drunk tank when he walks through the station to Hopper’s office, but he recognizes most of them as the college kids he’d seen last night.

Hopper’s in his office with the door open, some woman with blonde hair sitting in one of the chairs, her back to him. Must be some idiot’s mom, there to bail them out. He knocks on the doorframe, ready to back away and sit at one of the deputy’s desks until Hopper’s done. 

“Hey, kid, come on in,” Hopper says, leaning back to stretch his arms all casual. The lady turns around, and _of course_ it’s Ms. Marsden, the nosy bitch the school hired as a guidance counselor. 

“Hi, Billy,” she says, smiling all bright at him, and Billy is _too hungover for this shit_. 

“ _Hell_ no, Hopper,” he grits out, jaw tight with anger, and spins away. He’s already halfway out the door when Hopper catches up with him. 

“Billy, just come listen to her, she knows what the hell she’s talking about. You’re _smart,_ you could get in anywhere if you just fucking tried.” Hopper sounds a little frantic, but Billy’s not gonna sit here and listen to some _girl_ talk to him about his _bright future_ like she’s an expert when she’s only like twenty four and she’s probably never had to work had for anything in her whole life. _Fuck_ that.

“Hop, I’m _not going_ to college. I’m not applying, either. You know that shit costs _money,_ right?” He’s _so fucking tired_ of listening to Hopper talk about college all the time; it’s especially bullshit since he _knows_ Hopper didn’t go to college. Hopper spent his GI money on a cabin in the middle of the woods. _Idiot._

“Kid, I’m not gonna let you leave until you at least listen to her. There are scholarships, and financial aid, and you’re too smart not to at least fucking _try_.” Hopper’s eyes are bright, his hand firm but not tight on Billy’s arm. He has _no fucking idea_ what he’s talking about. 

“You _can’t fucking keep me here,_ asshole,” Billy snarls back, and all of a sudden Ms. Marsden is there, fluttering her hands like _that’s_ gonna solve the problem. 

“Billy, there are _options_. Schools are _always_ looking for students who are smart enough to do well there, and if they’re a little, uh, _low on funding,_ ” she says all fast and high-pitched, always couching what she _wants_ to say in some metaphor or soft, bullshit language. _Low on funding,_ his ass. “Well, there are ways to work _with_ schools to get aid. You have the second highest GPA in the _school_ , and it’s never too early to start preparing. I can help you.” 

The fucking _pity_ in her voice chokes him. How dare she assume he needs her pity, when she’s never done a damn thing for him and she doesn’t even _know_ what the fuck he’s been through. He can only _imagine_ how much she’d pity him if she knew why they’d had to move, why he’d missed so much school he was a year behind. It’s fucking _idiotic_ of her, to think that going to some fancy college where he wouldn’t even fit in and getting some degree he doesn’t even fucking _need_ would _fix_ whatever she thinks is wrong with him. 

“I don’t _want_ your help, you stupid _bitch,_ ” he spits at her, and Hopper’s hand flexes on his arm. 

“Billy, you _can’t_ talk to her that way,” Hopper says, voice all commanding like he’s being the Chief of Police now instead of trying to be Billy’s _dad_ or some shit. “You have to be _civil_.”

“You can’t fucking _make me,_ ” Billy says, blood alight with anger and rage and the throbbing in his head from last night. He pulls his arm out of Hopper’s grip, turns to face him. “You don’t know _jack shit_ about me, other than that my dad’s an asshole. I _ruin shit._ I ruined our chances in California and I ruined shit with Steve and I’m gonna ruin your life, too.

“You’ve already _got_ one fucked-up stray to look after, and she, like, _loves you_. Why the _fuck_ are you trying to control my life, you’ve already got some new kid to take the place of your old one. Just go get married to Joyce and have your _happy fucking suburban_ life with your new family, no one would blame you for kicking out some shitty teenager and forgetting about your _dead kid_.” 

He can’t stop himself from going for Hopper’s throat with his word; he wants to hurt Hopper the same way he’d wanted to hurt Steve, that horrible night. He already fucking regrets it, but it’s probably for the best, anyways. No reason getting somebody else’s hopes up that he’s gonna turn out decent. 

“ _Get out._ ” Hopper’s eyes are dull, his mouth tight. “And when you get back to the house, you’d better be ready to apologize for the _fucked up shit_ you just said.” 

“I won’t _be_ back,” Billy spits, in reflex; he’s panicking now, clawing at _anything_ that he can use to hurt Hopper. 

“We’ll see,” Hopper says, and his voice is exhausted but he has this tone in his voice like _I know you better than you do_ and Billy can’t fucking _stand_ it.

“Fuck off.” Billy’s out the door, tires screeching as he peels out of the parking lot, before Hopper can say anything else. 

He goes back to the cabin, long enough to grab a couple blankets and some clean clothes and the roll of cash he keeps in his underwear drawer. El comes out of her room, hair still one big tangle from the teasing and hairspray last night, as he’s throwing stuff down to the main floor. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, a note of confusion in her voice. 

“What the fuck’s it look like, kid? I’m leaving.” He turns around to make sure he’s got everything he, like, needs. He’ll come get the rest of it, or Hopper’ll burn it in the designated smoking clearing, or _something_. 

“Why.” She doesn’t sound like it’s a question, and her eyes are hard, a little sad when he looks down at her. She doesn’t deserve to be left again, he figures, not without a reason. He climbs down from the ladder, tries to pull her into a half-hug. She’s stiff, still like a snake is before it strikes. 

“I can’t be what Hopper wants me to be, I can’t be what _anyone_ here wants me to be. I’m _messed up_ , El, and I’m always gonna be messed up. I can’t stay here and mess everyone else up. It’s _selfish._ ” She softens a little bit at the tears that make his voice shaky, but she still doesn’t hug him back or anything. 

“I’m messed up,” she murmurs, so quiet he has to strain to hear it. 

“You’re _not,_ ” he stresses, looking her dead in the eye. “Or, at least, you’re the same kind of messed up as everybody in this town is. _I’m_ messed up like Kali is, like Axel is, so messed up I can’t _have a family_ like everybody else. You _can_. Hopper loves you, and so does Joyce and so does Max and all the rest of the little nerds and Steve loves you too, he’s _so proud_. Hell, El, _I’m_ proud of you. You’re gonna be okay, and _I’m not_. I don’t wanna keep you from being okay just because I can’t be.”

“Where are you going?” she asks finally, eyes full of tears. She’s so _brave_ , standing there with balled fists, refusing to cry. 

“Hell if I know,” he says, too honest. “Chicago? Pittsburgh? Somewhere big enough I can live without fu--messing anybody else I care about up.”

“Go to Chicago,” she says, chin set like _you’d better_. “Kali and Axel will find you. You don’t--you should not be alone.” 

“Okay, kid,” he says, heart breaking. He’s not gonna get to say goodbye to Max, and even if he could he’s pretty sure she’d kill him before he could cross the county line. El’s like his kid sister too though, now, and he feels like _shit_ , seeing her cry and force her chin high like she doesn’t care. 

“Will you come back?” she asks, and isn’t _that_ the fucking question. 

“Not unless I feel like I’m not gonna mess you guys up anymore.” It’s too honest; he feels like he’s torn open again, like he did this morning. He thinks for a second about Steve, and it’s so fucking _heartbreaking_ he feels a stab of physical pain in his chest. 

“Promise you will come back.” It’s not a question, this time. Her eyes are burning, even though the tears. Her voice is the kind of monotone he’s come to associate with strong emotions, anything she would’ve gotten in trouble for _before_. He feels like he’s lying to her, but, like, there are nice lies, he’s pretty sure, and he doesn’t think she’d let him leave if he didn’t promise. 

“I promise. And, hey, don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. I’ll be safe, kid.” She does hug him, then, gets his(Steve’s) sweater all gross with tears as she promises to keep his secret. He gathers his stuff up, throws it in a bundle in the trunk, and heads towards the highway, crying like some fucking kid, feeling like a fucking _shitheel_. Nothing could be worse than this, he’s pretty fucking sure. 

He has to stop in some podunk town in Illinois to refill his tank. He’s not crying anymore, not like he was at least, but the guy looks him up and down all serious when he goes in to pay for his gas and a giant, _shitty_ coffee.

“Not from around here, huh?” the guy asks, and Billy just doesn’t have the fucking energy to deal with any _bullshit._

“Nah, thank you for the gas,” he says as nice as he can, and pushes through the doors with a final-sounding ding. While he’s filling up, he calls Mark with the change he keeps shoved in the ashtray of the Camaro. He calls the hospital first, but apparently Mark’s at home, so he shoves a few more quarters in the payphone and waits. 

“Hello?” Mark says, sounding worried and half-asleep. “Is Eli okay?”

“Eli?” Billy asks, quiet so he doesn’t startle Mark. “No, it’s me, It’s, uh, Billy.”

“Oh, hi, Billy!” Mark sounds noticeably relieved, and Billy worries about him the same way he always does, knowing all the shit Mark’s putting himself through because he’s just _that good of a guy._ “Sorry, uh, there’s a patient at the hospital--I’ve been--it’s nothing. What’s up, buttercup?” The cheer in his voice is pretty forced, but Billy doesn’t really have any other options. He’s pretty sure Axel and Kali haven’t, like, installed a phone line wherever they’re squatting, and Billy’s pretty sure he remembers Mark talking about some people he knows out in the Midwest who could let him crash for a couple days. 

“Uh, I left. Hawkins, I mean. I’m going to Chicago. Do you know anybody up there, anywhere I could go to sleep on somebody’s couch while I get shit figured out?” He can hear himself, voice quiet and cowed by the possibilities he knows are out there, the bad shit that could happen. 

“Yeah, uh, hold on, I’ll look up phone numbers, gimme a sec,” Mark says, sounding like his old self for a second, the Mark who would throw parties every night for a week if it meant helping somebody make rent, making feast out of famine. “Why the fuck did you leave, though, kid? What happened?”

“It’s--well, it’s a lotta shit. I fucked things up with Steve, and the guy I was living with wouldn’t leave me alone about thinking about college and, like, I ain’t exactly the college type, you know?” It sounds stupid, _small_ in comparison to the shit he knows Mark sees every fucking day. 

“Yeah, kid, I get that. You’re smart enough to go, but if you don’t wanna, who am I to make ya? And, uh, Steve, that’s--wait, how did you fuck things up with Steve? You make a move that went sideways? He actually straight?” Mark sounds half-distracted, the sound of rustling papers audible even through the phone line. 

“Well, not exactly. We, uh, we were drinkin’ tequila last night, and we got up to a little bit of something, but he was _blitzed_ and I--I just couldn’t face him, this morning, and then all the shit with Hopper and I just--Hawkins is too small, is all,” he finishes lamely. 

“I don’t think it’s quite fair, to decide something wasn’t okay when you don’t know how he feels about it. Don’t get me wrong, Bill, I’m all for making sure somebody’s okay with something, but tequila doesn’t just _make people gay_ , if it did I woulda had a better shot with Sylvester Stallone that night he came to the Pleasure Chest. 

“I think you’re stupid for running from it all, too, but who am I to say, I did the same shit when I was your age and then I got stuck someplace, eventually, had to learn to face my shit head on.” It’s the same kind of lecture Hopper would probably give him, but from Mark it’s a lot less stifling, somehow.

“Okay, kiddo, I got the number and the address for the clinic up there, you can go and tell whoever’s there you know me and they’ll take care of you as much as they can. Be nice, kid, and offer to help. They sure as hell need it.” 

“Thanks, Mark. How you doin’?” He asks, feeds another couple quarters in when the payphone beeps in his ear. 

“Fuckin’ tired, honestly. Not, like, _sick_ tired,” he adds real quick, “But, like, I’m working two jobs and I spend any spare minute I can at the hospital now. They’ve started kicking me out at night unless I’m scheduled to do an overnight.”

“”Sat why you’re so worried about Eli?” Billy asks, probing. He doesn’t remember any Elis from LA, but from what Mark’s said about San Francisco, there’s lots of tragic love stories happening every day, lots of people falling in love with the people they're caring for.

“Listen, kiddo, I’m not trying to make you turn around and drive your ass back to nowhere, Indiana right now, am I? So you can drop the Eli thing, it’s--the timing _sucks,_ but I’ll be fine. I’m gonna give you one more piece of unsolicited advice, too, so don’t bitch about it. You’ve only got so many days, kid, so don’t be so afraid of what bad _might_ happen that you scare away what good _could be,_ alright?” Mark sounds tired, sad like he isn’t usually. 

“We’ll see. Hey, Mark?” Billy says, as the payphone beeps at him again. “I, uh, I love you. Thank you, for everything.” There are some sharp sniffs from the other side of the line, and Mark’s voice is watery when he answers. 

“I love you too, idiot, now get your pen and paper or whatever ready so you can write this number down before you run outta quarters.”

Billy drives for a while, follows the signs for Chicago on the highway until he hits the snarl of city traffic and knows he’s gonna have to get off somewhere eventually. He’s sitting in traffic, exhausted by AC/DC, and when he goes to rummage around for something new to play while he’s also trying not to get cut off by some _asshole_ who doesn’t know how _lanes work, for christsake,_ he pulls out a battered old tape and shoves it in without even really looking at it. 

The surfy guitars of the Beach Boys jangle out of the speakers, and Billy’s hit with such a wave of _grief_ he bursts into tears before Brian Wilson finishes the first line, _wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long_. He hasn’t heard the Beach Boys since the last day his mom--well, the last day, anyways. 

 

“Play it for me, Billy,” his mom had asked, thin little hand playing through his hair. “Sing along, too, please. For your momma.” She’d loved the Beach Boys, said they were half the reason she chose LA over New York, and he hasn’t even been able to look at this tape, see his mom’s spidery black ink on the faded label, without tearing up ever since. 

Max had pulled it out once, right after he’d gotten the Camaro and was hauling her skinny little ass around somewhere, but he’d very carefully pulled it from her hand, shoved it to the very bottom of the center console, and never said anything about it again. 

Those last few weeks had been hard; he’d missed a lot of school, keeping vigil, holding her skeletal hand and remembering when she’d just been _tired,_ when her long blonde curls had still spilled over her pillows and she’d still had the sun in her skin. 

Neil hadn’t been any help, had stayed late at work to write reports and volunteered for extra business trips. Billy had been the one to parcel out her medications for the week, the one to hold the bucket when she threw up bile and water after the last chemo treatment, the one to pull the clumps of hair out of the drain and rinse off the shower chair. Neil had wanted her to stay in hospice, but the social worker had made all this fuss about his mom _being comfortable in a known environment,_ and when it had looked like it was really gonna happen, Neil had called the school and told them Billy might not be back for a while, for long enough to help her get settled.

That last day, though, she’d gotten some energy back; she had sat up in bed, not just lying flat on the pillows, and she’d trimmed his hair for the last time. _Keep it long for me, baby, since I can’t have it like this anymore,_ she had sighed, brushing the trimmings off the back of his neck; back then, it had only been down around his shoulders, a riot of curls he’d hated trying to keep out of his face while he was writing notes at school. 

They had listened to _Pet Sounds_ over and over, his mom asking him to start it over every time the music dimmed to nothing. She’d curled up around him in the bed, holding him close, until the smell of her, still leaking poison from the chemo, made his stomach riot so bad he’d had to go drink some cold water in the kitchen, gasping for clean air. He hadn’t cried that night, when he woke from a shallow nap to find her unmoving on the bed. He’d called the number Neil had left instead, told the concierge to have Neil call him as soon as possible, it was an emergency.

Susan had come over, to watch him and get somebody from the funeral home to come pick her up. Billy hadn’t known, then, who she was to Neil; she had just said she was a friend from work and made boiled broccoli and dry chicken breast for dinner. She’d brought Max, too, and he knew even then that he wasn’t supposed to cry, not in front of girls, so he’d pulled on her braids and made her cry instead, teasing her about being a redhead until she’d burst into huge, dramatic sobs. 

In the end, he’d only had to miss, like, two and a half weeks of school, and the principal had met with Neil and then Billy, asked if Billy felt ready to start school again. The set routine had helped a little, given him some place to drift though as the bells rang instead of wandering from room to room of their shitty little apartment, looking for somebody who was already in the ground. 

 

Thank god, the traffic is slow enough on 190 that he can still drive, even crying big fat tears like a toddler. He cries for her, yeah, and for the new life he’d been building in Hawkins, the haven he’d built of Steve and El and Max and Hopper and even the rest of the shitty loudmouth kids that he’d blown right open. She wouldn’t be mad about his hair, he figures; even though she’d asked him to keep it long, she couldn’t expect him to grow it out forever, and she’d talked so much, near the end, about _how he was growing up to be a smart, kind man who’s going to do good things_. He hopes she'd be proud of him now.

Billy’s still bawling along on the interstate, _I’m waiting for the day you can love again_ , when he sees the exit he’s pretty sure Mark told him to take. He can’t see through the tears well enough to read what the directions on the gas station receipt says, but the exit says in big white letters _Waukegan St._ and he remembers that much at least, fuck crying. He feels exhausted, broken open, but a little better too, like when you have to clean all the debris out of a wound and even though it hurts like hell, it feels better after.

He almost gets sideswiped, trying to get into the lane to turn north on Sheridan, but he manages to find the clinic okay. It takes, like, _fifteen minutes_ for his face to go back to its normal color, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are gonna be red-rimmed for a week, but eventually he calms down enough to get out of his car and head into the clinic. It’s a little weird, that it’s open on Saturdays, but given all the shit that’s been happening, how _scared_ people are, he’s not all that surprised. When he pulls the door open, a guy who’s probably thirty but looks _sixty,_ he’s so dried up and pale, is reaching for the door on the other side. 

“Uh, excuse me,” Billy says, startled into his manners. 

“You’re excused, dear heart. Go get tested,” the guys says back in this soft, low voice. he's got these deep purple spots all over him, made even darker by just how paper-white the guy's skin is. “Don’t wait, baby.”

Billy’s officially freaking out, a little; he’s never been face-to-face with this shit like Mark has, though he’s heard all the awful stories. There’s all manner of people in the waiting room, from guys who look like they could break Billy in half to some women who’ve got hickeys and fingerprints high on their throats and shit like _his girl_ tattooed on them to some more dried-up, skinny dudes wearing face masks like the guy he’d run into at the door. 

“Over here,” the girl at the counter calls, and he walks over with a faked swagger like he knows what the _fuck_ he’s doing.

“Hi, honey, what are you here for?” she asks, all kind eyes. Her braids are beautiful, a deep auburn that makes her brown skin shine. She looks fucking _exhausted_. “You need to get tested for something or to talk to one of the social workers about something?”

“Uh, my friend Mark, Mark Schlafly, from the clinic over in San Francisco? He said he’d call ahead, see if anyone here could help me out for a couple days until I can find my friends and shi--uh, and stuff.” He sounds like an _idiot_ , bumbling through the conversation. “If I could get tested, though…”

“Oh yeah, shug, he just called not an hour ago. If you’ll fill this out for me, I’ll get you on the list to get your blood drawn. Are you going to be able to pay cash today, or do we need to get you set up with a social worker to talk options there too?” She doesn’t sound like she’s judging him; she’s just, like, _soothing,_ gives off this calm energy like _everything’s gonna be okay, honey._

“Nah, no I have cash, thank you,” he answers all awkward. He takes the clipboard she hands him, fills out the information with a shaky hand. _Have you ever been the recipient of anal sex? If so, when was the last time? How often do you use condoms in your sexual experiences?_ It should be awkward, probably, but there’s a weird sense of camaraderie here, like since everyone’s _supposed_ to be ashamed, nobody needs to be, at least not inside the clinic. 

“Okay, honey,” she says all nice when he brings her the finished paperwork. “It’ll be about ten minutes before somebody’ll call you in to get your blood drawn. You can come home with me when my shift’s over, okay?” He could kiss her, and he almost offers to in a fit of absurdity. 

“Thank you, uh, Patti,” he says, reading her nametag. She smiles at him, big and earnest. 

“You’re welcome, William--or, wait, no, it’s Billy, right? That’s what Mark said.” He smiles back at her, goes to sit in one of the chairs and think about nothing until they call his name. It doesn’t take long to get his blood drawn; the guy who’s doing it is really good, even gives Billy a little cup of apple juice when he sees how badly Billy’s hands are shaking. He goes back up to Patti’s desk when he’s done, pays for the test in cash and tries to look like he knows what the fuck he’s gonna do now. He can’t sit here all day; he’ll lose his _mind_. 

“Baby, why don’t you go get somethin’ to eat, go hang out somewhere while you wait for me to finish up? I’ll be done here around six.” She pats his hand, and the lump in his throat forms again, sudden. 

“Thank you,” he whispers around the tears choking him, and she smiles, waves him off so she can help the next lady who’s waiting. He walks out of the clinic, head still pounding from a hangover and crying all fucking day, and picks a direction at random. He ends up on the Northwestern campus, and he wanders around, fitting right in with the rest of the hungover students, until some guy asks if he’s lost. 

“I’m, uh, touring I guess? I wanted to find somewhere to get a bite, I’ve been looking at all the buildings and shit all day and I’m _starving._ ” it’s not untrue, really, and it’s a hell of a lot easier than explaining why he’s _really_ here. 

“Oh, _sick_ , what are you thinking about studying? Here, I’ll bring you to the good caf, they’ve always got decent burgers and shit.”

“Uh, something in health I think? Maybe political science. English would be cool, too, though,” Billy relies, startled into honesty. 

“Oh, awesome. I started last year as a gen ed major, but I took an engineering class my first semester and I fucking _loved it_ so now I’m doomed to doing horrible problem sets for, like, the rest of my _life_. I’m Ian, what’s your name, dude?” his tour guide babbles as they head towards a really pretty building Billy assumes must be a dorm or a dining hall or something. 

“Bill-uh, Bill.” He doesn’t know why he doesn’t give his full name, or full nickname, whatever, but Ian doesn’t seem like he’s weirded out.

“Awesome, dude, welcome! I wish I had more friends outside of the engineering school, so I could introduce you to somebody who knows, like, _anything_ about the stuff you’re interested in.” Ian keeps up a steady stream of conversation through their lunch (burgers; they _are_ pretty fucking good, and they get soft-serve for dessert. Ian makes Billy mix peanut butter in with his vanilla, and it’s pretty good, too.) Ian glances at his watch when they’re done eating, just loitering and talking about music and shit, and exclaims. 

“Oh, shit, I’m gonna be late for my tutoring session. Here, dude, let me write down my address for you, you can write me if you have any questions or anything!” Billy glances over his shoulder at the clock on the far wall, and he’s surprised to see that it’s almost five-thirty. _Shit,_ he’s gonna be late to meet Patti if he’s not careful. He takes the torn piece of notebook paper Ian presses into his hand, heads out of the dorm and towards Sheridan again. 

 

He's reaching out for the front door of the clinic when some asshole shoves by him on the sidewalk, pushes him into this short lady with mean eyes who’s-- _what the fuck_ \--holding a knife up against his side. She’d _better not_ fuck up Steve’s sweater. He drops his keys, kinda throwing them at the clinic door; hopefully, somebody’ll bring them into the clinic and his car won’t get stolen. That’d be the cherry on top of the shit sundae his life is right now, honestly. 

“Let’s go,” she says, mouth mean, and Billy lets her lead. He’s, like, eighty percent sure he’s not getting mugged. She hasn’t asked for his wallet or anything, and she’s guiding him with purpose towards a van in the parking lot. He gets in, because, like, what the fuck _else_ is he supposed to do?

“You William Hargrove?” the lady says after she’s shut the van door, still brandishing the knife at him. 

“Who the fuck wants to know?” he spits back, and she smacks him, _hard,_ across the face with the flat side of the knife. 

“Are. You. William. Hargrove.” she asks again, violence flashing in her eyes. 

“Fuck, okay, yeah, easy on the moneymaker,” he tries to joke, and she raises her hand like _you really wanna mouth off right now?_ “Yes, I am William Hargrove. Who’s asking?”

“We’re with an organization that seeks to empower humans to reach their full mental potential,” she replies, and is she _serious?_ She sounds like a fucking villain monologue from a shitty b-movie. He has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing in her face.

“What does _Eleven_ mean to you?” she goes on, and the other guy in the back of the van, this huge guy who reminds Billy of nothing so much as a fucking _fridge_ , cracks his knuckles all menacingly. Are _these_ the people after El? If so, he’s not telling them _jack shit_. 

“It’s a number,” he says, all _what flavor of stupid are you?_ , and the dude punches him so hard he feels his head crack against the wall of the van. He can’t say _shit_ if he’s unconscious, he thinks, and plays dead. It’s not hard, with the stars twinkling behind his eyes and the darkness closing in velvet around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi what's UP sorry to RUIN YOUR LIVES. I did absolutely make myself cry writing this so that's where we're all at. 
> 
> I hope I haven't ruined your whole lives, but rest assured Billy will be out of the danger zone by the end of next chapter, I don't _care_ how long I have to make the chapter to get there. I pinky promise, everyone's gonna be _just fine and mostly in one piece_ by next chapter. I do have fun notes, even though this wasn't a particularly fun chapter. Also, big shout outs to all the people who regularly comment on my work! Thanks u/AlexValondale, u/mAadMax, u/shaboop, u/shubaka, and all the other amazing people who make me wanna write more all the time!!
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes**
> 
>   * I struggled _hard_ with finding a title for this chapter, but it comes from _Fa Ce La_ by The Feelies. Happy song about doom? Sign me the _fuck_ up. 
>   * Hi hello, welcome to the first sex I've written since I was, uh, twelve? I hope it's not _appalling._ I tried my best, damn it.
>   * I am the sort of person who becomes a furnace the second I get drunk. Like, sometimes my boyfriend has to make me get up and take a cold shower I'm so overheated. Therefore, so is Steve. 
>   * I _love_ The Outsiders and that book is GAY AS HELL and you can rip my queer reading of it from my cold dead hands. Will is almost certainly Ponyboy. Also, the amount of sexual tension in the movie version is, from what I remember, _excessive_. S.E. Hinton gets all pissy when you say Ponyboy and Johnny are gay tho so, uh, they're gay forever and always thank you ma'am.
>   * The album _Pet Sounds_ is one of my favorite albums of all time, and I have a friend who can't listen to it because it reminds her of her grandma who passed. I felt the same way about Neko Case (my witchy MOM, I'd highly recommend anything she's ever made its all _amazing_ ) for a long time after someone I love died suddenly. One of Neko Case's songs came on shuffle when I was driving home like, a year after the person I love died, and I cried BIG UGLY TEARS for an hour or so, but it was so cathartic that now I can listen to Neko again. 
>   * The Howard Brown Health Clinic was (and, to my knowledge, still is) an incredibly welcoming, LGBTQ+ positive sexual health clinic. Its where they did the research that ended up helping develop the Hepatitis B vaccine, as well as being one of the first clinics to really really look hard at AIDS and help identify the secondary illnesses that could be markers that someone had AIDS. It sounds _amazing_.
>   * Please no one do a google maps search to see how far apart the Northwestern campus and the Howard Brown clinic are from each other. If you do, please let me have my dreams and don't call me out on it lmao.
>   * I apparently woke up from a full-ass sleep last night, said out loud "I need to write this down" and made a note on my phone that said "harringrove mighty ducks au" so, uh, I guess that's what I'm writing when I'm done with this?
> 

> 
> **Warnings for Death of a Loved One:** Billy thinks pretty heavily about his mother's death by cancer; he served as her primary caretaker when she was released from hospice to die more comfortably at home. He remembers a few explicit details about her actual death, but I think the more triggering element for some may be the discussion of how his mother changed over the course of her disease. Take care of yourselves, bbs!! If you're worried about this bit, you can stop reading at the line "the surfy guitars of the Beach Boys" and come back in after the next large break (start with "Thank god, the traffic...").
> 
>  **Warning for Trafficking Red Flags:** Having certain tattoos can indicate that someone has been or is currently being sex trafficked, including highly visible tattoos of men's names, demeaning or derogatory language, and possessive language. I mention that some of the people at the Howard Brown Clinic have tattoos that can indicate this, because we know (unfortunately) that, in addition to men who have sex with men, IV drug users and people who engage in unsafe sex work practices were (and are) two of the hardest-hit populations in the AIDS crisis. 
> 
>  
> 
> **In the next installment, probably up Saturday but maybe Monday: Billy gets interrogated; there is a dramatic rescue; lots of tears of relief are cried.**


	13. and you don't have to say that you're sorry anymore ('cause, honey, I believe what you said)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find that eleven has become twelve, there's a whole bunch of internalized guilt, and a ragtag band of teenagers saves Billy from certain doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babies, it has to get a little worse before it gets better, but by the end of this chapter, Billy's okay I promise!!!! Some chapter-specific warnings:
> 
> **Warning for EMETOPHOBIA:** There's some more puke talk in this one, too. I think this'll be the last of it, though!
> 
> **Warning for CONCUSSION:** There's some pretty vivid description of what a concussion feels like, from the single one I got (from walking into a metal bar, har har har). 
> 
> **Warning for TORTURE:** Billy gets interrogated, and they're willing to do a pretty decent amount of damage to him to get the information they want. More spoilery notes at the end of the chapter.

The funny thing about Neil’s beatings, Billy thinks to himself as he licks blood off his teeth, is that they make shit like _this_ a hell of a lot easier. The big guy, Claude, apparently, seems like he’s actively trying not to, like, _kill_ Billy. He doesn’t punch Billy’s lower back, so his kidneys are safe or whatever, and he’s surprisingly gentle with Billy’s head, although he’s _absolutely_ punched Billy’s lights out a couple times since they picked him up yesterday; it seems like they don’t want him awake unless they’re talking to him, and apparently Claude knocking him out is the easiest way to keep him unconscious.

Billy’s way more scared of the lady, Mary, mostly because that knife she’s got is, like, _wicked sharp_ , so sharp he hadn’t even been able to tell for a few seconds when she’d sliced his face last night. It had bled a lot, but it hadn’t been deep; it’s already scabbed over. Steve’s sweater is ruined, though, covered in blood and spit and snot and gross shit and Billy figures that’s what he gets, for trying to bring something _good_ along with him on this horrible trip. 

He’s not unconscious whenever he's in his little cell, but he sure as fuck pretends to be when they leave him after they question him. It looks like it’s supposed to be a bedroom or something, a sleeping berth maybe. He’s _pretty sure_ they aren’t in a residential neighborhood or an apartment complex or anything, or else there’d be a window in here. They'd made him go up an elevator, plus it smells so _aggressively_ like Pine-Sol that he’s pretty fucking sure they’re in an office building. In his room, cell, whatever-the-fuck, there’s a bucket he’s probably supposed to piss in, a cot that looks like it came from an army surplus store with some scratchy-ass wool blankets to match, and that’s pretty much it. It’s uncomfortably close to being a jail cell, except the door’s made of wood. 

 

Claude had shaken him awake, once they’d gotten to--well, to wherever they are. Billy’d already had something tied over his face, already had his arms tied behind his back; at least they’d done _that much_ right. He had frog-marched Billy into some building, shoved him up the stairs while Billy’d been doing his level best not to fall and break his fucking head open. Mary had been the one to take the blindfold off, cutting it with her knife like she was playing the lead in some shitty school play about kidnappers. 

“Tell us what we want to know and we _might_ let you live,” she’d said menacingly, and _as if_ Billy was gonna fall for that preschool bullshit. Don’t say _anything,_ he knows from Neil, don’t beg or plead or fight back. Just shut down. They'll get bored eventually.

“I have _no fucking clue_ what you want to know,” he’d said, sounding infinitely braver than he had felt. It hadn’t been a lie, either, which Billy figures must be the only reason she didn’t just slit his throat then and there. 

“I think you have some idea,” she had purred, all drunk on power, and he’d had to work not to roll his eyes. You’d think the villains in real life would be smarter than the bad guys on TV, but apparently Mary’s been taking her cues from James Bond movies or some shit. 

He hadn’t said anything, just looked her in the eyes and tried to forget everything he’s ever known about El, about Hawkins Electric, about the _weird fucking things_ Hopper’s shown him pictures of, now. Steve had kept popping into his head instead, the memory of him sprawled in sleep, hair a clusterfuck and mouth turned up in an almost-smile. Billy’d clung to the image for dear life as he’d refused to answer her questions, as she sliced his cheek and the pain rose hot with the blood, as Claude had stood him up from the cot he’d been sitting on and started punching him in the stomach. 

He’d woken up sometime late last night, or probably just really early this morning, head _pounding_ like he’d been listening to Max scream in his car for a few hours straight. He hadn’t been, like, really hurt, either, definitely not as bad as half the shit Neil’s done to him anyways. It had given him time to think, time to plan exit strategies and think about how this was probably a punishment from the universe for all the shitty things he’d done since the night before. And, if he’s honest, he couldn't have stopped his mind from straying to Steve, from rolling the memory of Steve around in his mind like he’s trying to distill it, and when he falls back into the darkness of sleep, he’s got Steve’s mouth, sweet and slack with dreams, stuck in his mind. 

 

Mary and Claude had been back early this morning already, and the questions had started all over again: _Where is Eleven? How did you find her? Who has been hiding her? Does she still have her preternatural abilities? Is she the one who’s been trying to reopen the gate?_ He hadn’t talked then either, and he could feel their impatience growing. Billy really and truly would rather _die_ then let them have her, then let them fuck with Max and Steve and Hopper and the rest of the fucking _Mystery Gang_ , but he’s not sure how much longer he can avoid taking some permanent damage. 

Mary had said something, this morning, about taking his fingers and toes if he doesn’t start talking, and even though the threat had sounded ripped out of some movie, he’s a little worried. He’s fucking _hungry,_ too, and their first priority definitely isn’t feeding their shitty hostage. He thinks he’s got a massive concussion brewing, too; he’s thrown up a couple times since he woke up, just bile mostly, and his vision won’t focus right. They’ve left a few bottles of water in here, at least, so he can rinse his mouth out, sip on it when he’s feeling really nauseous. 

Billy’s mind is still stuck on the freeze frame of Steve asleep. If that’s the last memory he gets of Steve, he guesses he can die, like, mostly happy. He’s not really _planning_ on dying, though, not now. Imagining the damage Max and El would do if he did, how much collateral damage there’d be--it almost makes him laugh, except Claude split his lip open earlier and it _hurts_. 

Split lips really are the fucking _worst,_ he thinks absurdly, and he does laugh then. The scab on his lip breaks open, and he has to go spit in the bucket again. The Wonder Twins, as he’s taken to calling Claude and Mary in his head, will be back soon, he’s pretty sure, and they’ll want to talk again. 

 

_____

 

“Uh, excuse me?” Patti hears from the other side of the opaque glass as she’s locking the front doors to the clinic. That big-eyed little baby gay she’d promised to take home is nowhere to be found, but the voice she’s heard doesn’t belong to him. She opens the door slow, more careful than she would’ve been two months ago, before some religious _nutjob_ had tried to knife Susanna for _curing those sissys who deserve to die for their sins_. 

There’s a girl on the other side of the door, probably fourteen or fifteen, all gangly legs and knobby knees and frizzed corkscrew curls. She’s holding a keyring, and it looks weirdly familiar. 

“Hi, ma’am, I saw these on the ground and I figured somebody at the clinic musta dropped ‘em,” the girl says, showing off her good manners. 

“Well, thank you, baby, I appreciate it,” Patti says, holding her hand out for the keys. The girl passes them over, smiles big and sweet like life hasn’t started kicking her ass yet. It doesn’t look like anybody on the street’s watching for her, though, and Patti’s lived in Chicago too long not to ask. 

“You got somebody to get you home?” Patti asks, shuffling her bag and her jacket around so she has a hand free. “I can give you a ride if you need it, it’s already dark and you ought not be on the streets around here after sunset.” 

“Oh, uh, I was gonna catch the El, I can wait for the next train,” the girl says all awkward, and Patti’s glad the girl isn’t a _total imbecile_ , taking rides for any stranger out on the street. 

“I know you’re not supposed to get in cars with strangers, and you do too obviously, thank god, but I’d rather know you’re gonna get home safe if I can. I’m a nurse, and I know anybody can be the kinda asshole to hurt somebody, but I can promise you I ain’t.” She’s not sure if the girl’s gonna take the offer, and really Patti wouldn’t blame her if she refused it, but after a little pause, after she looks Patti right in the eyes like she can see the kind of person Patti’s gonna be that way, she nods, short. 

“Yes, please, thank you,” the girl says, smiling that big wide smile again. One of her teeth is chipped, the incisor on the left, the one her little baby nephew calls _the vampire tooth_. 

“Come on in then, baby, I’ve gotta lock the doors from this side. We’ll go out the back. What’s your name, sweetie?” Patti waves the girl in, and she stands fidgeting in the front atrium of the clinic, rubbing a fold of her shirt back and forth between her fingers. 

“Ten--uh, Austen. Like the lady who wrote those books, _Wuthering Heights_ or whatever?” The girl--Austen, apparently--doesn’t sound too sure, but Patti lets it slide. She sees enough people who can’t tell her their real names at work to know when somebody’s hiding something for a good reason. 

“Nice to meet you, Austen. I’m Patti. Let me just put these keys behind the counter, leave a note for the girl who works Monday morning, and we’ll get you home, okay?” As she’s writing a description of the keys and where Austen found them, Patti takes a closer look. She’s _seen these_ before, she _knows_ it, but she can’t remember where. It’s not unusual, for her to forget shit like that nowadays; Augusta, her auntie who’s into all that therapy shit, says it’s _secondary trauma_ or something, but _Patti’s_ not the one finding out she has AIDS, or GRID or _whatever_ the CDC’s calling it these days, so Auntie Augusta’s clearly lost her damn marbles.

“You okay in there? You need anything?” she asks, poking her head out of the glass partition to see Austen standing, stock still, in the waiting room.

“No, ma’am,” the girl says, but her stomach growls so loud Patti’s _sure_ the poor girl hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, if not since dinner last night. 

“We can run by my house, get us a little sandwich before I take you home if you want, Austen,” Patti offers. “It’s really no trouble, not at all.” She’s used to bringing home strays, at this point in her life. She’s a _nurse,_ not a social worker, but the few social workers who _give a shit_ about the people who come into the clinic are overworked and underpaid and taking in strays of their own already, so she figures she can pitch in too, can give the scared kids who come in with no money and no name and no family to speak of a place to rest for a few nights. 

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Auston says after she snaps back into herself. 

Austen doesn’t exactly fit the standard of kids she’s used to bringing home, but now that Patti’s got a gook look at her, she’s kind of got that look about her that Patti recognizes from long days of practice here, that look like _I’ve seen some shit and nobody really cares about it._

Usually, she gets that look from the working girls who come in, sometimes the gay men if they’ve been taking care of partners or friends who are dying. It’s a fucking _travesty_ , the way the NIH isn’t giving _anybody_ money to study it and the president hasn’t even said the _word_ AIDS and more and more people are coming in every day, scared sick about a partner a few years ago who’d had a red-wine birthmark or getting a cold that lasts longer than about three days. It makes her so mad she could _spit,_ how little attention everyone’s paying to this. 

But she’s not on the clock, and her Auntie Augusta had made her promise to let the anger and frustration and _sadness_ she feels go as soon as she clocks out, so she tries to breathe it all out and let it go. Remembering all the kids she’s given a home for a few days, though, reminds her again of that poor kid, Billy.

He’d come in looking _heartbroken_ , eyes all red and face a little swollen from crying. She would have guessed, looking at him, that he was just another one of the poor guys who’d had sex with some guy and seen the purple marks after the fact, but Mark had called earlier to warn her that some sad kid was coming and that he was safe and stuff. 

They all do that kind of thing now, with how cheap flights are and how easy it is for people to fly out to San Francisco or New York to have a night like they’d read about in some lurid magazine. All the clinics, all the doctors, even some of the more caring people at the CDC know each other now, are on a first name basis, really, and they all call the closest good doctor or clinic and warn them, _hey, so-and-so might be coming in to get tested_ or _if you guys hear from this kid, tell him to call his friends, they’re worried._

Mark’s a good guy, has held the hands of a few of her former patients as they’ve died, and she trusts him as much as she can trust a guy she’s never met. When he calls and asks her to look after this kid, _just for a couple days_ , she can’t say no, wouldn’t even if she could. She thinks about the kid again, Billy, and suddenly she remembers where she’s seen the keyring she’s holding now. _Shit._

“Auston, honey, I gotta make a quick phone call before we leave.” She’s rifling through the address book she keeps at her desk, frantic for Mark’s phone number.  
It rings and rings, and finally Mark answers, right as she’s about to go into a tailspin. The cops around here don’t give a _shit_ about the people who come into their clinic; if they did, they’d bust the list of pimps she’s called in to report every month for _a year_. If Billy’s missing, the cops sure as hell aren’t gonna be the ones to go looking for him. 

“Hello?” he says, all polite white boy phone voice, and she could laugh except for how much she wants to cry. 

“Mark, it’s Patti from Howard Brown. We’ve, uh, I think we’ve got a problem.” 

 

______

 

Hopper’s fucking _exhausted_ by the time he gets home. He’s had to deal with annoyed parents and hungover college students all fucking day, plus Mrs. Ambrose’s bunny had gotten out of the house again right before he was supposed to get off work and he’d had to go chase it down while the other officer was on a _real_ call.

He feels pretty fucking bad about the fight he’d had with Billy, but it’s not like Billy should’ve been _surprised_. Hopper had been, a little, when Ms. Marsden had brought up Billy a month or so ago when he’d gone in to meet with her about getting El’s testing set up, about how the _fuck_ he was gonna get her into school with the _extremely_ minimal documentation he’s got for her. 

_He’s smart as hell,_ she’d said, and _he could get a full ride to just about any school he applied to, given the circumstances_. He’d known Billy was smart, otherwise he wouldn’t’ve let him teach El jack shit, but to read his history essays, to hear about how he’s ruined the curve on every math test he’s taken this year--Hopper can’t just _let it go_ , can’t just let Billy sit there and be miserable and make trouble for himself, just because he’s bored and he thinks kids like him can’t go to college. 

So he’d let her convince him to set up this meeting, like maybe if Billy didn't know it was happening he would be more open to the possibilities. He’d _known_ it was gonna turn to shit from the beginning, especially with the way Billy had bristled at him last night, but what the fuck _else_ was he supposed to do? He’s not exactly a parenting expert, and he’s only really known Billy for a few months, how the hell was he supposed to know Billy’d go fucking _ballistic?_

Ms. Marsden had twittered around for a half-hour after Billy’s stormed off, asking if Hopper wanted to _process this trauma_ or some shit, which had helped Hopper understand _exactly_ why Billy doesn’t wanna go anywhere near her. He doesn’t really want to deal with her anymore either, but he’s gotta get El into school _somehow,_ shit. 

When he gets home, Billy’s car isn’t there. It’s not exactly a surprise, given how pissed Billy’d been this morning when he’d left; Billy’s probably staying over at Steve’s or something, maybe at the Byers’ if the Harringtons are home. (He _really_ should talk to Steve about that, next time they get together to talk about the whole Brenner thing. The kid’s fucking _lonely._ )

El throws open the door before he can touch the handle. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, that unholy fire bright in her eyes. 

“How DARE you.” she thunders, baring her teeth at him like she did when she’d first come home, furious at him for limiting her waffle consumption and the time she spent listening to Mike be sad on the damn walkie-talkie.

“Billy started it, kid. He’ll be home tomorrow, I’m sure, he just needs some time to cool off.”

“NO,” she yells, and she sends a rush of wind at him so hard he has to take a few steps backward. “He’s GONE. He went to CHICAGO, and you MADE HIM LEAVE.” Hopper’s so _done_ with today, so done with other people’s _bullshit_ that he doesn’t even process what she’s said at first, too distracted by the thought that Max has taught her a terrible new volume. 

“Billy _what?_ ” he asks, as soon as his brain decides to relay the important part of her message. “Why?”

“He’s too _messed up_ to have a family,” she whispers, and Hopper’s heart breaks, for El just as much as for Billy, because the unspoken question in her voice says _am I that messed up, too?_

“He’s _not,_ ” Hopper says fiercely, coming in to gather her close in a hug. “You’re not, either, kiddo,” he reassures her, rubbing a hand over her arm soothingly, and she bursts into these huge sobs, hugging him back. She cries for a while, understandably, and when he finally calms her down enough to get the story out of her, he feels even _more_ like shit. 

“He _promised_ to come back,” she gets out between hiccups, and he can work with that. 

“Well, he will, then. He wouldn’t break a promise to you, El. Not to Max, either. Does--does she know?” he asks, even though he knows that if she did, he would be fending off a frantic, angry Max _right this second._

“No,” she wails, and Max _definitely_ must’ve taught her that. “He _left_ , and I can’t find Kali, and she needs to help him.”

“Okay, kid, you’re gonna have to wait until you go to sleep for the night to find her again, huh? She’s not gonna be asleep at--” he glances at his watch “Six fifteen, now is he?”

“No,” she sighs, but her hiccups are less frequent, now, and she’s wiping her eyes. There’s snot all over his shirt, but he feels more like her dad than he ever has, right now, helpless and fond and sad right along with her. He doesn’t want Billy gone any more than she does. 

“Hey, El, I have to tell you something important.” She sobers up immediately, no evidence that she’s been crying but her swollen eyes and the tearstains on her cheeks. It breaks his heart a little farther open.

“I, uh, _shit._ I love you, kid,” he says, gruff because he’s so _horrible_ at this kind of thing. Joyce has been trying to get him to talk to El about this for _months,_ but he’s not one for talking about things like this, hasn’t been since the last real funeral he went to, the tiny little coffin and the quiet shushing noise of dirt falling into the grave and the blank, unfeeling eyes of his ex-wife.

“Thank you,” she says, and, after a hesitant minute, “I love you, too.” He can’t help but cry, then, and she starts up again, too, and it’s a _mess,_ and he has _no idea_ what he’s gonna do about Billy. 

If his suspicions about the whole thing are right, though, he should probably let Steve know, even if he doesn’t tell Max right away; he’d seen the shadow of a lovebite high on Billy’s neck this morning, and from the way Billy hadn’t said anything about what they’d got up to last night, had blushed crimson when Max had poked fun at him instead of annoying her right back, it wasn’t just some kid Billy’s never seen before. Hopper’s not an idiot, he knows the way people act when they’re dancing around each other. Hell, he and Joyce’ve been doing the same shit since everything started with Hawkins Lab, up until she’d met Bob.  
He and El finally quit fuckin’ blubbering like little girls and he lets having a real dinner slide just this once. 

“Go heat up some waffles, El. Put peanut butter on mine, please.” She beams, eyes a little red but actually okay, Hopper’s pretty sure. He goes over to the phone, dial Steve’s number from the list on the wall. 

“‘Lo?” Steve says when he answers, all groggy. “Whassat?” He sounds like he still hasn’t recovered from last night. Aren’t teenagers supposed to bounce back faster or something?

“Hey, Steve, I’m gonna need you to come by the house as soon as you can,” he says, serious but not so much that Steve’s gonna be worried, hopefully. 

“Is everything okay? Are the kids okay?” Steve sounds immediately more awake, and there’s rusting on the other end of the line like Steve’s getting ready to leave while he’s still on the phone. 

“Yeah, the kids are fine, everything’s gonna be okay, I just--I need you to come by, when you’ve got a chance.”

“I’m leaving the house now, I’ll be there in fifteen,” Steve says, hangs up before Hopper can say goodbye. Hopper needs a _fucking_ cigarette before he has to deal with this. 

_______________

 

Steve wakes up alone, the clock next to him blinking _12:08_. He’s not cold; there’s a blanket over him he _knows_ wasn’t there when he fell back asleep earlier, curled up with Billy. There’s a giant glass of water on the bedside table, and a few tylenol next to it. No note or anything, which is really not that surprising in the cold, clear light of morning. He can’t _believe_ he threw himself at Billy last night, made Billy sleep with him after Billy had made it _obviously clear_ that he didn’t want to hook up with Steve. Right? Who fucking knows anymore. Nancy pokes her head into his room while he’s chugging his water, laughs a little. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she laughs, “Or should I say good afternoon? Is Billy in the bathroom or something?”

“Uh, no?” he says back, awkward. He’s _dying_ of hungover-ness and embarrassment and she’s _snickering_ at him. “He’s, uh, he’s gone, and--” Steve is _not_ going to cry about it, it doesn’t matter how sick and sad he feels, but there’s a weird note in his voice anyways and he’s pretty sure Nancy hears it, by the way she pushes into his room and gets under the covers with him. 

“Jonathan,” she yells, and Steve winces. She’s got some fucking _pipes_ when she needs them, and she’s not hungover like he and Jonathan are. Jonathan comes into the room, shielding his eyes from the light streaming in Steve’s window, and throws himself down on the bed, half on top of Nancy’s legs, groaning as quietly as possible. 

“Whaaaat?” he moans, burying his head in Steve’s comforter. “I’m _dying._ ” 

“Steve’s sad about Billy, who apparently left this morning like a thief in the night,” she says, fingers carding through Jonathan’s hair. Jonathan sighs happily, burrowing closer to her hands. When Steve looks at her all dismayed, she puts her other hand in his hair, scratching at his scalp. It feels _amazing,_ and he forgives her for laughing at him immediately. 

“So, are you ready to tell us why you’ve got bearn burn on your chin and he was nice to you last night when you threatened to vomit in his car and why he left this morning before he could join us for the traditional hungover breakfast?” Nancy asks after a quiet moment of peace. He unforgives her immediately; _how dare she_ make him think about Billy, he thinks dramatically, as if he wasn’t already _aching_ with how much he wants to talk about it. 

“No.” Steve says, stubborn as a mule, and she rolls his eyes, stops scratching him for a second. He reconsiders pretty quick, too hungover to be embarrassed. 

“Okay, so, uh, he kissed me last night--” Nancy lets out a little thrill of excitement, and Jonathan slaps at her thigh ineffectively to make her stop. “But, uh, he stopped, and then we made out but he’s _straight_ , and he stopped it eventually and he _doesn’t want me._ ” He’s aware of just how miserable he sounds, but he can’t help it. 

“Honey,” Nancy says, laughter in her voice, “You were both drunk last night, but--well, I have two buts.” Jonathan snorts out a laugh, groans as it makes his head hurt. 

“My _first but,_ ” she goes on, flicking Jonathan’s head as he laughs again, “Is that I’m pretty sure he didn’t just kiss you because he was drunk, and even if he did, he’s _most certainly_ not straight as a rail. My _second_ but is that he probably didn’t want your guys’ first _whatever_ to be when both of you were so hammered you couldn’t see straight. He was pretty cozy with you last night, and _I_ was sober enough last night to see the gross, lovestruck look on his face while you were cuddled up to him trying not to puke in his car.” It makes him feel a little better, but if that were true--

“Why did he _leave_ then?” Steve whines, feeling more pathetic than usual. He _hates_ feelings. 

“He’s got a lot of shit to get through,” Nancy says back, the consummate _older sister who knows best,_ “And I’m sure he’s just as fucked up about this whole thing, I mean, you were drunk too, and _he_ doesn’t have anyone to remind him that you’re into him when you’re sober, too, now does he?” He _hates_ when she makes sense when he’s hungover and she’s all chipper. 

“So what do I do?” he wails, as quietly as he can. It still makes his head hurt, but that’s pretty par for the course when he’s this hungover. 

“You give him his space to deal with it for a while,” she says knowingly, “and then, if he’s still acting like a titty baby, you make him face it. Now c’mon, I want shitty diner food. I’ll drive.” 

She and Jonathan drop him off after their marathon of greasy eggs and bacon and syrup-logged pancakes, and he decides that since Billy’s probably gonna want some time, he goes back to fucking sleep. 

The phone wakes him up around six, and he’s half-expecting it to be his mom, reminding him they’ll be home on Tuesday. She always calls more in the few days before they come home, thick syrupy vowels like that’ll make him forgive them for ditching him for, like, ten months out of the year. 

It’s Hopper, though, and he sounds all serious when he asks Steve to come over. At first, Steve’s worried it’s an Upside Down thing, but when Hopper says all the kids are fine, Steve’s mind goes straight to Billy. He speeds all the way to the cabin, doesn’t give a _shit_ if Mrs. Ambrose from the HOA calls the house to leave more passive-aggressive messages about how _Steve’s driving is a danger to their quiet, lovely little neighborhood_ or something. He’ll delete them before his parents get home, anyways. 

“Uh, Billy’s, uh, he’s gone, kid,” Hopper starts, and Steve’s _immediately_ on high alert. He had promised Max he wouldn’t leave like this, promised her he’d stay until he graduates. Shit, Steve feels like _garbage_. 

“What--because of-- _why?_ ” Steve asks. He--if Billy left because of him, he’ll _never_ forgive himself. Max and El’ll probably kill him, and he’ll deserve it. Billy’s been so much better lately, and if Steve’s driven him off with some drunken kisses, well. Hopper has this uncomfortable look on his face, and Steve’s struck with the urge to run, to get back in his car and go before he can hear Hopper say it’s Steve’s fault. 

“It’s my fault, son,” Hopper says instead, exhausted. He looks like he’s been crying, looks like he feels _so guilty_ with his shoulders up almost to his ears. “I, uh, I pushed him too hard about colleges and shit. He--Miss Marsden--anyways, he’s headed to Chicago. El’s gonna, uh, gonna get a hold of Kali and tell her to be on the lookout for him.” Chicago’s only, like, four hours away, Steve thinks, and he’s already planning how he’s gonna get there, where he’s gonna stay while he waits for Billy to be ready to come home, when the phone rings. 

El looks like she’s gonna get there first, but Hopper lunges for the phone, pulls it off the receiver. 

“Hello? Billy?” Hop says, but he gets a furrow in his brow as he listens to the person on the other end of the line, so it probably isn’t. El’s already gravitated to Steve, wrapped her arms around his middle and started squeezing. She looks _heartbroken_. Hopper’s listening intently, shaking his head and making little grunts to show he’s listening.

“Okay, Mark, I’ve got some connections up there, I’ll make sure we’re looking for him. Yeah, tell Patti to hold on to the keys, we’ll come grab them when--well, when we can, I guess. Yeah, uh-huh, thank you so much for calling. Of course, I’ll let you know as soon as we know anything. What’s your phone number?” Hopper starts hunting around on the table for a pen, finds one, scrawls the number and some other information down on a little notebook. “Thank you again, Mark, for letting me know. I’m glad he had somebody looking out for him up there, thanks to you.”

Hop hangs up the phone, sits down hard in one of the kitchen chairs, puts his head in his hands. El pulls Steve over, places a hand on Hopper’s shoulder to comfort him.

“Who was that?” Steve says, stomach dropping down to the floor. 

“This guy, Mark, one of Billy’s friends from LA, I guess. He said Billy called on his way to Chicago, said he might need a place to crash for a few days, and Mark sent him to some clinic called the, uh, hold on,” Hopper pauses to look at the notes on the paper, voice shaky, “The Howard Brown Health Clinic. 

“He said he’d just gotten off the phone with the lady who was gonna be helping him out, she said he hadn’t turned back up so she could take him home and his keys were found right outside the door to the clinic. He’s, uh, he’s worried somebody might’ve taken him, said there was no blood or anything outside the door to indicate he’d been mugged or anything.”

“A photo of Billy,” El demands, tugging on Steve’s sweatshirt. “I need one.” He’s got one in his wallet, luckily, from last night, the one of him and Nancy and Jonathan and Steve all cracking up at the _awful_ sex joke Billy’s just finished telling. She goes to sit on the couch, stares at the photograph like she’s trying to set it on fire with her mind, which, _can she do that?_ , he wonders absently. 

“El, no,” Hopper says, rising from his chair, but she doesn’t even look over at him, too focused on the photo. After a minute or so, she goes mostly limp, eyes open but unseeing, photo falling out of her hand. Steve’s heard the kids talk about El trying to track people, but he’s never seen it firsthand. It’s a little scary, the way she goes blank and there’s blood running down from her nose and then suddenly she’s gasping for air, back with them, eyes wild with fear. 

“He’s in a room,” she says, wiping the blood away with the back of her hand and smearing it down her face. She’s still breathing really heavy. “I couldn’t find exactly where, there’s no windows. He’s hurt. I wanted to look more, but--Papa was there, looking at him, at _me_.” Her voice cracks, and Hopper goes around the couch to gather her up, hold her close while she cries a little. 

“No more searching right now, you hear me?” Hopper says, looking thunderously angry but keeping his body gentle so El has some rock to cling to that she knows won’t hurt her. 

“Okay,” she agrees simply, and cries harder. There’s snot running down her face, mixing with the blood she missed, and it’s gross and heartbreaking and Steve wants to _kill_ this motherfucker, to kill all the people that have ever touched Billy and El and Max and _everybody_. 

“I’m going,” says Steve, and Hopper looks at him all worried. 

“You can’t, son, what if they find you too?” Hopper’s got tears in his eyes, too, and he doesn’t look at all bothered by the grossness El is rubbing all over the shoulder of his uniform shirt. He’s holding her tight, and he can see her hands clenched, white-knuckled, in the back of his shirt. 

“I’ll kill them before they touch me,” Steve replies, all calm. “They’ve fucked with El and they’ve fucked with Billy and they sure as _hell_ aren’t gonna fuck with me.”

He and Hopper argue back and forth for a while, El dozing on Hopper’s lap like she’s a little kid, drooling on his shoulder. Finally, Hopper agrees not to shoot his tires out if Steve tries to go. Hopper won’t give him a gun though, says he can’t be trusted with it. Steve calls Nancy from their phone, asks if she and Jonathan will come with him up there, and it’s only eight-forty-five by the time she and Jonathan pull into the driveway, bags with changes of clothes and who knows what else slung over their shoulders. 

“Hopper, let me borrow a gun?” she asks as soon as she comes in the door, and Hopper nods immediately, goes to open the gun safe. 

“Are you _fucking kidding me?_ ” Steve complains, quietly enough that he doesn’t wake El up where she’s still passed out asleep on the sofa, blanket tucked in around her like she’s a burrito.

“He’s seen me shoot, dipshit. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a _barn_ right now, with how upset you are, I’m not surprised he wouldn’t give you one.” Nancy’s all calm and collected, hair pulled back. Jonathan’s standing behind her, nodding along with her, but it doesn’t feel like he’s being lectured, like he feels like it should; instead, he feels inspired, safer now that she’s there to help him. 

“We picked up some stuff from your house,” Jonathan says while Nancy and Hopper are discussing how much ammo she wants to bring with her, how to load whatever scary-looking gun she’s got. “A change of clothes, some of the cash from your underwear drawer. We can go straight from here, as soon as you and Nancy are ready.”

Steve feels shaky, nauseous with fear. What if Brenner’s goons really hurt Billy before they can get there? What if Billy’s--he cuts that line of thinking off before he can spiral into a panic attack, slumps onto the sofa next to El. She’s not doing her usual lip-smacking, murmuring-in-her-sleep routine; in fact, her face is hard, her muscles tight like she’s having a nightmare. She starts shaking her head a little, shifting, and she wakes herself up with another gasp, eyes immediately aware as she sits up quick. 

“Kali knows. I told her you were coming.” El says, and there’s a teeny line of blood running down from her nose again. “She will meet you at the clinic, tomorrow morning. Eight AM. She says they will keep him alive, see if someone will come for him, one of us.”

Hopper had stopped talking to Nancy the second he’d heard El gasp, and he’s back at her side before she can lift a hand to wipe her nose. He pulls out a hanky, wipes her face off, presses a kiss to her forehead and tousles her hair. 

“Good job, kid, now no more blank space for you. Did you see--him, when you were talking to Kali?” Hopper asks, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders when she shivers. 

“No, she hid us. She said she has been hiding herself when she is there since Thanksgiving. I’m tired,” she says, and lays back down. Hopper tucks her in all good again, rubs the little thinking lines between her brows smooth with one big, rough thumb. 

“You did good, kid, now sleep, normal, okay?” El nods, eyes already closed, and Hop checks her blankets one last time, gestures them all towards his room with a tilted head. 

Steve’s shaking now, outwardly, sitting on Hopper’s bed like a puppet with its strings cut, and Nancy’s chafing his arms like she’s his mom or something when Hopper comes through, shuts the door quietly but firmly behind him. 

“You guys are gonna have to be real careful,” Hopper warns, sighing. “I know what Kali’s capable of, I’ve read the police reports and what’s left of her files. She’s _dangerous_ , and angry, but she’s your only chance of getting Billy out safe. 

“If Brenner’s there,” Hopper spits the doctor’s name like it tastes bad, “She’s gonna kill him. The rest of you kids don’t need that shit on your conscience, so don’t go in thinking you’re gonna be lethal. Aim for knees, feet, arms, punch them in the head if you’ve got to, but don’t try to kill. It’ll just fuck you guys up worse. I have to stay, especially if Brenner’s looking for El, or I’d be going with you. 

“You’re gonna call me wherever you stop for gas, the second you get to Chicago, as soon as you meet up with Kali, and whenever you guys come up with an actual plan for what you’re gonna do. You need a _real plan,_ no half-assed shit. Kali and Axel’ll know what to do, follow their leads.” Nancy looks like some kind of avenging angel, a valkyrie or whatever dope warrior woman Mike was yelling about putting into their campaign last week, eyes fierce and chin squared as she nods at Hopper. Jonathan looks scared, but determined. Steve pulls himself together, unwilling to be the weakest one, cracks his neck, and hugs Hopper tight. Hopper hugs him back, claps him on the back hard but kind.

“You guys want coffee or tea for the road? You’re gonna need to find a hotel tonight when you get there, get some rest.” Hopper scrapes together some snacks, oranges and stuff for ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and fills a couple thermoses of coffee. He makes one of tea, too, super sugary like Billy likes it, and Steve doesn’t have the heart to stop him from doing it.

Steve drives like an asshole, the whole way to Chicago, and somehow they don’t get pulled over once. He plays Billy’s mixtape on repeat. Nancy keeps pouring him cups of the tea Hopper had made, and by the time they reach Chicago proper, he thinks he’ll never be able to drink tea again, if they don’t--well. None of them are particularly talkative; Jonathan’s asleep in the backseat, and Nancy’s scribbling shit on a piece of paper, what looks like diagrams and plans and shit. 

He pays for a double hotel room in cash, about a mile away from the clinic, but after he rinses this horrible day and all the alcohol sweat off himself in the dingy little ensuite bathroom, changes into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and brushes his teeth half-heartedly, Nancy waves him over to the bed she and Jonathan are in, holds the covers up. 

“You don’t need to sleep alone right now,” she demands, and he gets in, remembers how _sweet_ Billy had been, less than twenty-four hours ago, putting a cold rag on his neck and calling him _princess_ in that sneering tone of voice that makes arousal twist in Steve’s gut and smoothing his thumb against Steve’s feverish back over and over again, soothing Steve back to sleep. He cries a little, quiet so he doesn’t wake up Jonathan, and Nancy sweeps his hair back from his face, looking exhausted herself. 

“We’ll find him,” she whispers fiercely, and “he’ll be alright, I promise.” He almost believes her, too. 

 

When they meet up with Kali and Axel the next morning outside the clinic, there’s two people Steve doesn’t recognize. Kali’s got a frightening amount of black eyeliner on, and Axel’s got his hair stiffened up into an impressively tall mohawk. The short, _beautiful_ black woman standing next to them, murmuring to Axel, doesn’t seem weirded out by either of them, but the skinny, incredibly tall girl with her does, fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt and glancing up and down the street. It’s snowing a little, cold, but the sun’s out, too. 

“We should move to another location,” the girl says as soon as they walk up, “It’s not safe here. They’re coming soon.” Her eyes flash a little, reminding Steve of El a little bit somehow. She’s already walking down the street, not looking to see if anyone’s following. 

“Sorry,” the woman apologizes, voice low, “She’s the one who found the keys, and she’s alone with no place to go, but I didn’t wanna leave her alone in my apartment while I met you all here. Her name’s, uh, Austen? She prefers, uh, Ten, I guess.” Kali’s eyes narrow, and she runs up to catch up with the girl, pulling up her sleeve to show the girl her own tattoo. The girl stops short, hand over her mouth, and Kali pulls her into a hug, both of them shaking like they’re gonna fly apart. 

“There’s a diner on the next block,” the lady offers when they catch up to the strange embrace that’s happening. “They don’t look at anybody twice in there. Also, I am sure at least _one_ of you got taught decent manners, introduce yourselves. I’m Patti, and I am apparently the only adult in this whole damn city who’s capable of giving a shit about this pack of feral teens I’ve found, god help me.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Steve likes her. 

“I’m Nancy, Nancy Wheeler,” Nancy starts, her voice that carefully-controlled I’m the boss voice she only uses when she’s stressed. “This is Jonathan, and Steve.” Patti looks at all of them all serious, smiles a little. 

“I’m glad he’s got someone looking out for him. He looked tired yesterday, like he’d been running from some demons. He needs good people, to help him fight ‘em.” They duck into the diner, and the poor, harried waitress’ jaw drops when they all huddle in and ask for a table for seven. She has to push together a few tables for everyone to be able to sit together. Steve slips her a ten and a thankful smile as he sits down, and she looks a little relieved. 

“I’ll be right back with menus, how many of you want coffee?” she asks, customer service face back on, and takes note of how many of them raise hands. 

“So, uh, how do you kids all...know each other?” Patti asks, clearly confused about how two gutterpunks and three wholesome-looking teens from the middle of nowhere are as tight as they are. Axel and Jonathan are talking about music, quiet, and Kali’s not paying attention at all, too distracted by her newest, uh, family member, Steve figures. They’re comparing tattoos, whispering to each other, anger flashing bright in their eyes.

“We, uh, well. Kali’s younger sister lives in Hawkins, and she’s friends with our younger siblings. We’ve been through some shit together, really,” Steve explains as best he can. Patti raises her eyebrows like _okay, sure,_ but she doesn’t call them on it. The waitress comes back with five mugs in one hand (Steve’s impressed at her balancing skills) and a steaming pot of coffee in the other, menus clamped under one arm. They all pass around coffee and menus and talk over each other a little bit, trying to order, but the waitress is a pro and gets everything right on the first try. Once she’s gone, Axel and Kali call the rag-tag meeting to order, leaning in to get everyone’s attention. 

“Okay, so we have some second-hand experience in how these things go,” Axel starts, and Kali nods along, looking everyone in the eye as if to make sure they’re paying attention. “They’re gonna hold him for at least a couple days, but they’re gonna rough him up plenty while they do it. They probably won’t do any permanent damage, at least not until the third day they have him. We’ve gotta find him before that happens.”

“They’re looking for information on El,” Kali cuts in, “To bring her back in. I’ve fucked up too many of Brenner’s men for him to want me back, really, unless she’s the one who’s bringing me in, so he’s stopped looking, really. He knows I’ll come to him when his cowardly ass is brave enough to show me where he is, but I’d bet he wants El back and on his side before he feels safe enough to do so.”

“El?” Ten cuts in, eyes wide, and Kali nods, grimacing.

“Eleven,” she confirms, and Ten looks like she’s gonna cry. 

“El’s the last one, we’re almost certain,” Steve says, too far away to try to soothe Ten with a touch. “I’ve been--investigating it, with El’s new, uh, dad I guess?”

“Eleven?” Patti says, fire in her voice. “Ten? You mean somebody gave you kids _numbers?_ I’ll go kick their asses myself, just point me in the right direction.”

“It’s a long story--” Axel starts, but before he can finish, Kali has started in with the Cliffs Notes, hitting the high points. Patti’s eyebrows are going higher and higher, her face darkening with fury. 

“Do y’all have somewhere to stay, honey?” she asks Kali. “Somewhere _safe,_ I mean, like a real house with bedrooms and a kitchen and shit?” Kali nods, but it’s so obviously a lie that Patti actually, truly laughs. “No, baby, y’all can come sleep in my damn spare bedroom after this. I’m not leaving some poor kids who got _experimented on_ to freeze in a Chicago winter.” 

“We’ll talk later,” Axel says before Kali can open her mouth to say something spiky back. “We need to plan how we’re gonna find Billy, right now.” 

“El’s gonna try to find him again today,” Nancy adds, and when everybody who knows looks horrified, she sighs all gusty. “Hopper isn’t happy about it, either, but El made the very good point that we’ve got a whole city to comb through, plus the suburbs. Maybe he’ll have seen something since last night that can point us in the right direction. Brenner’s in Chicago, we’re pretty sure. Why the hell else would he have waited for one of us to come here to kidnap somebody? Even if he figures out where she is, Hopper’ll have a little bit of time to leave with her.” It’s a good point; Nancy’s like that Greek goddess who’s all about military strategy, Minerva or whatever her name is. 

“So we just sit here and wait until El finds something, maybe, and then we start hunting through apartment buildings?” Jonathan sounds, not unfairly, like this is a _stupid fucking idea_. It’s insane, but Steve would look through _every house in Illinois_ if it meant finding Billy. 

“Well, no,” Axel starts, and Kali interrupts him immediately. 

“We know he’s got a safehouse somewhere in the ‘burbs, probably in Aurora or Waukegan. We don’t know exactly where, but some of the people we’ve--gotten information from--” Kali has this wicked look on her face, and even though she doesn’t say _and then killed,_ clearly everybody at the table except maybe Ten knows what she means, “they’ve said it’s near a body of water. Brenner’s been really smart about it, doesn’t let people see where they’re going until they’re there. We’re pretty sure it’s a warehouse, but it could be an office building or something. We know it’s not in a residential area; they aren’t worried about noise at night.”

“That’s something to go off, anyways. Hopper told me to call at nine, to see what El’s found. Now how exactly are we going to organize ourselves? I’d rather put you and Axel at the head of things, since you’re so much more familiar with this stuff,” Nancy says, and they all pretend they don’t hear the _and we aren’t ready to kill, maybe_ she doesn’t say. There’s a quick pause as the waitress comes over, carrying about thirty-five plates, and Nancy and Kali and Axel strategize as everyone else eats. 

Steve can’t stop thinking about Billy, about whether he’s okay, about what he’s gonna say if--no, _when_ they find Billy, about what kind of triage he can do to make sure Billy’s okay, about how he wishes he’d paid more attention when Joyce had tried to teach him first aid.

“You okay, baby?” Patti asks quietly, nudging his shoulder where he’s been holding a forkful of hashbrowns in front of his face for the last minute and a half. “You look even more worried than the rest of your friends.”

“I just--Billy and I--I’m part of the reason he came up here,” Steve replies, low-voiced. She clicks her tongue at him sympathetically, gives him a soothing smile.

“I’m sure you’re not, Stevie,” she sighs, nudging him again. “Unless you’re the reason he’d been crying yesterday, when he came in.” His face falls, and she pats him on the arm reassuringly. 

“I mean, I’m not _not_ the reason,” he says miserably, and her face somehow manages to be sad for him without being full of pity. She must be a great nurse, he thinks. 

“Did you break his heart?” Axel asks, eyebrows drawn all protective. “Kali was sure you would go for him, if he just went for it.” 

“I don’t _know_. I don’t _want to_ , I didn’t _mean to_ if I did,” Steve says, quiet, and he can hear the misery in his voice. It’s embarrassing, and Patti pats his shoulder, gentle but firm.

“Axel, I think the real question here is did Steve break his heart _on purpose?_ Billy seems like the kinda boy who would break his own heart, if you gave him half the chance. He’s one’a those martyr-types, huh?” she asks, real knowingly.

“I don’t know about that,” Axel argues back, and their conversation fades to the back of Steve’s mind; he’s stuck on what Patti’s said, about Billy maybe being the kind of person who breaks himself apart, gives himself up for the people he cares about. Really, now that he thinks about it, Billy _is_. He hadn’t always been, that’s for damn sure, but Steve knows now that he’s taken plenty of beatings for Max. 

On their way out of town last night, Steve had insisted on going to see Max. It wasn’t _fair_ that she wouldn’t know her own brother was missing, not when he and Nancy and Jonathan were running off to go find him and El couldn’t talk to anyone but Hopper about it. 

 

“Hi, Mr. Hargrove,” Steve had said, smiling like he didn’t want to throw Neil into a pit of vipers. “Is Max home? One of the other kids asked me to bring her over a Christmas gift.” 

“Hold on,” Neil had grunted, had yelled into the house “MAXINE!” and wandered away from the door, watered-down drink in one hand. She’d come running in, not scared but a little cowed, head high but eyes lowered. 

“Hi, Steve,” she’d said, like she was expecting him.

“Hi, Max. El had to go out of town for the vacation, but she told me to bring you a gift. I left it out in the car, do you wanna go get it with me?” He’d waggled his eyebrows at her like _be cool_ , and she’d nodded, followed him out to the Beemer. Nancy had already moved into the backseat, so Steve could look Max in the eye when he told her. 

“So, Billy’s, uh, Billy’s missing. We’re pretty su--”

“He’s WHAT!” she had yelped, tears springing into her eyes like that. “WHERE did he GO? What HAPPENED?” Nancy had had the forethought to roll the windows down, but Max’s wildcat screeches are still earsplitting. 

“He and Hopper got into it, and, uh, some stuff happened last night, and he went to Chicago. We’re pretty sure Brenner’s guys have got him.” She had looked at him, wide-eyed and wild, and started windmilling punches at him, bursting into tears for real. 

“How COULD YOU?” she’d screamed, and it was like he could hear her heart breaking. “WHY did you let him GO?!” She had been crying too hard to really get a good punch in, thankfully, but Steve’d felt like he was about to cry, too.

“I didn’t, Max, but I don’t think anybody coulda stopped him, really,” he had said, and she’d calmed down a little, still crying but not hitting him. “We’re going to get him, Max. I won’t come back unless I have him with me, I promise.” 

“If you don’t come back, _with him,_ I’ll actually for real _kill you,_ ” she had said, and he’d nodded. That was only fair, really, he’d thought. 

“I promise, too, Max,” Nancy’d said, not unkindly. “But you have to stay here. We’ll call you tomorrow morning, let you now what the plan is, and the second we get Billy somewhere safe, we’ll call you, okay?”

“You’d better,” Max had threatened, and flipped down the visor, rubbed at her whole face. “Neil won’t notice if my whole face is red,” she’d explained when Jonathan looked at her funny. “He’ll just think it was the cold.” She’d probably been right. 

“Oh, yeah,” Steve’d said, “the present. This isn’t El’s, by the way, it’s mine, but I figured it wouldn’t be too smart to send you back in empty-handed, so just remember that when we all hang out, day after Christmas.”

“Can I open it now?” she had asked all excited, and who is Steve to keep her from whatever small distraction he can offer her right now? 

“Go for it,” he'd said, and before he could finish talking she’d ripped into the newspaper he’d clumsily taped around the box. 

“Oh my GOD,” she had yelled, hugging the jacket inside close. “It’s like Billy’s, but cooler!” It’s a leather jacket, a few buttons pinned on it already. Billy had been _so mad_ when he’d found out what Steve had bought her, when all of them had compared notes for gifts for the kids; apparently, that had been his plan, too. 

“I’m glad you like it, you banshee,” Steve’d smiled, “But go inside, we’ve gotta get on the road. Faster we get there, faster we find him, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she’d said, and looked him right in the eyes. “You know he protected me, like, _all the time,_ right? I can’t even _remember_ how many times he’s gotten the shit kicked out of him by Neil because I was being an idiot and refused to come home on time, I mean, _shit,_ ” her voice had gone all watery, and Steve had had to pinch himself, _hard,_ to keep from crying right along with her. 

“I’m the reason we had to move out here, you know? I made some stupid joke about some hickey he’d gotten from some boy he was hooking up with, and Neil was in the house, and Neil’d beat him so bad he’d been in the hospital for a _month_. He was supposed to graduate last year, but _I_ fucked it up for him. And then we had to move _here,_ which I really didn’t mind but Billy _hated,_ and then all _this_ shit--he doesn’t _deserve_ this anymore, _fuck._ ” 

“It was an accident, Max,” Nancy had said when Steve had just looked at her slack-jawed like an idiot, too fucked up about Billy actually _being gay_ to offer her any comfort. “You didn’t mean it, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, doesn’t make what happened any less my fault,” she’d said, voice hard. “So you go out there and you __fix this. Bring him back.” She’d looked like some little general, sending off her soldiers.

“We will,” Steve had promised, and given her a quick, sharp hug. She hadn’t looked back, going into Neil Hargrove’s house, and Steve had had to take a whole bunch of deep breaths before he could even think about driving away, thinking about how brave she and Billy both are. 

 

So, _yeah,_ Billy is a martyr type, and Steve can’t _imagine_ what he’s gonna do if Billy does something so fucking _stupid_ as get himself _killed._ He’s zoned the hell out, just thinking about what a good person Billy can be, _is being_ more and more. If Billy’s gay, and he’d told Mark (who’d told Hop the barest details) that Billy’d messed things up with Steve--well, all Steve’s been able to think about is Billy since Hopper had called him over, Billy warm under him and Billy pulling him close and Billy leaving early in the morning so he wouldn’t have to face the possibility of a world where Steve isn’t drawn to him like a moth to the moon. He wants to kiss Billy more than ever, wants to hold him close and make sure he’s safe and say all the nice things that he’s been bursting to say for _so long,_ now. They just have to _find_ him first, is all. 

“Steve? _Steve._ ” Nancy flicks him on the forehead, brings him back down to earth. 

“What?” She puts the check in front of him, and it’s less than he would’ve thought, really. He grabs some cash from his pocket, leaves it under the check, and they all troop out to find a payphone. 

“You better not pull that wad of cash out of your pocket again in the city, rich boy, you’ll get yourself mugged,” Kali teases, and Patti laughs.

Nancy’s on the phone already by the time they all catch up, making little noises of assent and scribbling something down on the notebook she must’ve pulled from her purse. 

“Okay, and Jonathan asked if you’d go _check on his mom,_ ” Nancy says all serious, like she’s trying to communicate a secret message. “You know how she can be, and he said she gets a little nervous if she’s got less than _eleven_ people in the house now.” It’s a good idea, making sure Hopper’s got all the people he cares about--well, all the people who aren’t in Chicago--are in the same place, where he doesn’t have to be worried or conflicted about who to protect. Plus, if anything _does_ happen, they’ll probably go for the Byers anyways, use Will as _insurance_ or something. 

“Oh, she’s gonna come visit you? That’s probably a good idea, give her a break from the rest of the world.” That’s probably the better idea, really; practically nobody knows where Hop’s cabin is. 

“Okay, well, we’ll see you soon. We’ve got a good direction to go, now, and we’ll be home as soon as we can. Bye!” Nancy somehow manages to sound just as chipper as she usually does, when she calls Steve to ask if he wants to hang out after school or if he can pick up Mike on his way home. She’s gonna take over the world, one day, Steve’s pretty sure. 

“Okay, so we’ve got a lead…”

 

__________

 

Billy feels like _shit_ when they wake him up in the morning proper; his head feels like it’s going to _explode,_ there’s so much pressure, and his throat hurts from throwing up watery, acidic bile all night long. It’s just Claude, thank _god,_ and he’s got a little paper baggie in his hand, the golden arches of the McDonald’s logo so bright in the artificial light of the room Billy could _cry_ with gratitude. 

“Hope you’re not a vegetarian, fucker,” Claude growls, looking tired and pissy. “The Big Man’s coming in to _talk_ to you later, you’ll need to keep your strength up for that, you poor bastard.” The threat of Brenner, or of someone close enough to him to be called _the Big Man,_ makes fear crash over him like getting caught under a wave, lungs pushing all the air in him out and getting stuck, muscles tensing against the strain of keeping still. Claude tosses the bag at him, and Billy can’t even catch it, just lets it hit him in the chest and fall down to his lap. 

Once Claude’s gone, the door barred behind him, Billy falls on the food like he hasn’t eaten in a week. He gets the hashbrown down in about three bites; it’s still a little warm, greasy and a little painful as the crispy edges scrape down his tortured throat. It’s too fast to be eating, Billy knows somewhere in his mind, and he heaves a few times, fighting the nausea from his head and the revolt of his stomach. 

He makes himself eat the McMuffin slower, savoring it as much as he can. He looks in the bag while he does, takes inventory. He remembers, vaguely, from some scout manual or something Neil’d said a million years ago when he was still trying to impress Billy’s mom or some shit, that you’re supposed to take an inventory of what you’ve got when you’re captured or stuck, how it could be used as a weapon or something else to keep yourself alive. 

He’s got these things: his shoes, which he could maybe pull the laces out of but honestly, he’d rather have shoes that can take him through broken glass or whatever; Steve’s sweater, sticky with blood that Billy’d forced himself to take off after Mary had cut his face last night, trying to avoid getting any more bodily fluids on it; his t-shirt (AC/DC, he wants to burn it as soon as he gets the fuck out of here) and sweats, both grimy as hell but not ruined; the bucket, full of puke he could probably throw on somebody if he had enough notice, though even the _thought_ makes his stomach turn; and the McDonald’s bag, which has three napkins, a little packet of syrup he thinks might make him throw up again if he looks at for too long, and _a receipt_. 

The receipt’s smudged with grease, but it’s still legible, and there’s an address at the top: _524 S. Lake Street, Aurora, Illinois_. These assholes aren’t smart enough to drive too far away to get the food, he’s pretty sure, and the food was still hot enough he figures they _must_ be close to the McDonald’s. This has _got to be_ his lifeline. He’d had a dream yesterday, before they’d woken him up to go inside wherever he is, where El had been running towards him, eyes streaming tears, trying to look _around_ him. 

He’d chalked it up as just a dream, then, but thinking about it now, it had had the same strange, dreamless quality as the dream he’d woken up from to help Steve, the night of the party, where some other little girl, eyes hard and hair shorn, had been running towards him full tilt, some old guy in a white coat clutching at her hand. It’s his only hope now, knowing that El can find people in their dreams or whatever, and so he goes to lie down on the filthy cot, clutches at the receipt like a lifeline, tries to find some part of Steve’s sweater that still smells like him. 

He’s asleep quick, thankfully, and El comes running up to him almost immediately. He shows her the receipt, smoothing it out from where it’s been crumpled up in his fist, and she nods, smiles through the tears running down her face. _We’re coming_ , she mouths, and he hopes like _hell_ she doesn’t mean her and Hopper. If he has to die to keep her safe, well, it’s a hell of a lot more noble of a death than wrapping his car around a tree or drowning in his own lungs with that pneumonia that keeps killing guys out in San Francisco, but if he dies and she and Hopper get _caught_ by this son of a bitch Brenner trying to rescue him, his death’ll be for nothing.

The blackness fades, and he’s back in what passes for a normal dream for him nowadays, where he’s beating Steve into a pulp and Steve surges up and kisses him and it’s everything he wants and _nothing_ he wants all wrapped up in one. 

 

“Wake up, William,” a cold, hard voice says, and when he opens his eyes, Mary and Claude are standing at attention by the door, proverbial tails between their legs, risking glances at the guy who’s standing in the middle of the room every so often. 

The guy’s old, handsome in the way a whole bunch of fucked-up housewives thought Jeffrey Dahmer was, all cold and unfeeling with a thin veneer of charm over the top. He’s got a girl with him, his hands tight around her upper arms. It’s not El, _thank god_ , but he can see the lines of what El used to be, what she is sometimes after her bad nights, trying to control emotions she shouldn’t have to so she can maybe make some _asshole_ happy. 

“Hello, William. My name is Dr. Martin Brenner, and you’re going to tell me everything you know about the girl called Eleven. Do not play dumb, do not lie. We will _know._ ”

“I’m not telling you _shit,_ ” Billy snarls at him. He makes sure to shove the receipt inside Steve’s sweater unobtrusively as he pushes himself to sit upright, head spinning. 

“Twelve, this bad man is keeping you from your sister,” Brenner says to the girl casually, and suddenly it’s like every muscle in his body is seizing up, his limbs twisting involuntarily. It’s what he imagines it must feel like to get tazed, the pain so agonizing that he can’t get a full breath. When his vision starts tunneling, lights shooting across his eyelids when he closes them against the pain, it suddenly stops. 

“Are you _sure_ you aren’t ready to talk?” Brenner asks mildly, like he’s asking if Billy wants sugar in his tea, and suddenly there are images running through his mind like somebody’s flipping through a photo album, Neil rearing back to punch him, Max flying down the streets of Santa Monica on her board, the kids at D&D, Steve’s sweet, sleepy face. Billy grits his teeth, doubles down on thoughts of Steve, all the times Steve’s smiled at him, all the times he’d knocked Steve down, even the fucking beating, trying to remember them as vividly and fully as possible. It’s just like when Neil had started throwing insults and shit, wild accusations--if you kept your mind fully on something else, kept it bright and clear in your mind’s eye, your face wouldn’t crack if he said something true. Hopefully the principle’s the same when some girl with fucked-up superpowers is rifling through his mind. 

“Can’t find her,” the girl complains, “Just some boy.” Brenner pats her on the back, and Billy’s pretty sure his mind is his own again, no other pushing through all his memories. 

“That’s fine, love, I bet we can distract him from trying to keep you out with a little pain. The fingers first, please,” he smiles, all oily, and passes the girl a snowy handkerchief from his pocket to wipe her bloody nose with. Billy feels his fingers moving backward of their own accord suddenly, pushed past discomfort into pain; he hears a _snap,_ faintly, and when he glances down at his hands, the middle joint of his middle finger, the one Neil’d broken only a few months ago, is twisted wrong. 

Billy puts on a wince that’s a little more exaggerated than he feels, hisses in a breath like he’s _really_ hurting. The girl might know what Billy’s hands have been through in the past, he’s not sure, but Brenner most certainly doesn’t. The longer he can let this motherfucker think some broken fingers are gonna get him to talk, the better. He get the feeling Brenner’s willing to do just about _anything_ to him to get the information he wants, and he’s gotta hope that whoever’s coming for him gets here soon. 

 

___________

 

“He’s gotta be in one of the warehouses near the water,” Steve’s arguing at Nancy, “If they’re close to the McDonald’s from the receipt. Like, they’re not residential, there’s _no point_ driving around looking for some house where there’s screaming happening, we wouldn’t be able to hear it from the car, anyways. We’ve got to go start looking at the waterfront before they can--well, anyways. It’s Sunday, most of those places are closed, we can focus on the buildings that have cars there and lights on, that’s where they’re gonna be.” Steve’s _sure_ he’s right. Nancy opens her mouth to argue back, but Axel stops her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“Steve’s right, Wheeler. It’s the best idea we’ve got.” Nancy grimaces, but nods. 

They’re all in Steve’s car, Austen and Kali and Axel and Jonathan squished into the backseat and Nancy navigating while Steve speeds down the highway, following the signs for Aurora. Patti hadn’t wanted Austen to come, had worried about _protecting the young one_ , but Ten had insisted, _I’ve seen it before and even if I hadn’t, I can help them now._ She hasn’t exactly explained _how_ , yet, but if she’s anything like Kali and El, she’s got _something_ up her sleeve. 

“Take the next exit, Steve, for the riverfront. It looks like we’ll be able to get off on River Street and take it all the way down towards Prairie,” Nancy directs. Patti had helped them find a map of the greater Chicago area, hunted around on it until she’d found Lake Street and circled it in red pen, made them _swear_ to bring Billy back to her house first once they find him. 

Steve pulls off on the exit, driving a little faster than he probably should. They have to drive _forever_ to get far enough south, but they find the McDonald’s pretty fast once they get to the south side of town. It looks pretty rough, graffiti everywhere and packs of kids standing around looking suspicious. Patti’d said something about gangs, and it seems like they’re in full force around here. They park at the McDonald’s to figure out where they’re going next, and Axel and Kali throw themselves out of the car, walk up to a group of kids on the corner all cool. They talk for a minute, and then Axel and Kali come back to the car, grim determination on their faces. 

“One of their lookouts saw a van with blacked-out windows pulling out of this parking lot,” Kali says, “Around seven-thirty this morning. They didn’t see who was driving it or anything, just said it turned right towards Prairie Street. They didn’t follow it.”

“Gimme a twenty, Steve. They gave us information, we _don’t_ wanna owe them anything,” he says, and Steve passes a twenty back. Axel dangles it out the window, and one of the kids runs up and grabs it, flashes a smile. 

“You never saw us, right amigo?” Axel says before he lets go, and the kid nods, taps the side of his nose like _you got it._ Steve pulls the car out of the parking lot, and they start looking. They turn left at the end of Prairie, but they don’t see a blacked-out van or anything else suspicious.

“We’re gonna do concentric circles around the McDonalds, I guess,” Steve decides for them, and everybody nods. 

“No. Turn right,” Ten says, eyes glazed a little. “Then a right again on Second, then another right on River.” She sounds sure, and there’s blood running down from her nose. Kali passes her a tissue, holds her close. 

Steve follows her directions, and they’re cruising down River real slow, pissing off the truck behind them _majorly_ , when Nancy yelps. 

“THERE,” she yells, pointing at the blacked-out van in the parking lot of an office building. _Crescent Electric_ , it says on the side of the building, and Steve screeches the car into the parking lot of the building next door. 

“Jonathan, you stay in the car,” Nancy orders, “In the front seat so we can make a quick getaway if we need to. Leave it running. Ten, you stay with him, where you’re safe. Kali, Axel, you guys take point, I’ll be on your six. Steve, you stay back with me. You have the bat, right?”

“Of course I’ve got the bat,” he says back, rolling his eyes. “It’s in the trunk. Axel, you want a crowbar or something?”

“Hell yeah,” Axel says, and they go to the trunk to grab their weapons. Nancy’s got the gun on her already, a fanny pack full of ammo, too. She looks _ridiculous,_ eyes dark and hard with controlled anger and gun in hand, wearing the neon-pink fanny pack, acid-washed jeans and an oversized black sweater, but she’d insisted they all look like normal people, just in case they got stopped on the way. 

When they get back around the car, Ten is arguing with Nancy. 

“You’ll _need me_ , I can _promise_ you. I can help. I’ll stay behind you, I swear.” Austen’s voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety in it, enough that Nancy looks her up and down and finally shrugs like _what can I do about it?_

“Okay, but you _run like hell_ if we get into trouble, okay?” Nancy says, voice troubled. “Steve, get her something to hit with if she needs to.”

“I’m gonna keep us hidden as long as I can,” Kali says, “but we need to stick close and be quiet for me to do that, okay?” There’s a few lights on, on the top floor of course, but they get into the building okay. Steve feels like he’s on The A Team or something, back to back with Nancy as they keep an eye on the hallway behind them. They find an elevator, and Kali’s nod tells them she can keep it quiet. Steve and Nancy load in first, and Axel gently pushes Ten in after. He presses the button, and Kali focuses, nose bleeding freely as she closes her eyes. 

“They’re in the third door on the left,” Ten says, apropos of nothing, in that same dreamy voice. “Two by the door, a big guy and a little mean lady, a teenager--Billy--on the bed, and--and-- _oh no_.” She falters, voice cracking. “There’s __another one of us, Kali, with Brenner. She’s hurting Billy.” She starts crying all quiet and Steve pulls her into a brief hug.

“We’ll get her, Austen,” he says reassuringly, but his mind is stuck on what she’d said before, _she’s hurting Billy._ His mind is racing, adrenaline clearing his mind. 

“I’ll get the big guy,” Steve decides, “Axel, you help me. Kali, we’ll leave Brenner to you. Ten, you get the girl out of there. And, Nancy--”

“I’ll get the woman,” Nancy agrees, eyes narrowing. “Probably the leg, maybe the arm. It’s gonna be loud, though, sorry guys.” 

They get out of the elevator, all hyperfocused in as they creep towards the door. It’s open a little, which was fucking __stupid of Brenner. Kali puts her hand down, counts down _three...two...one_ on her fingers, and there’s an explosion of noise and movement as they burst into the room. 

Axel slams the crowbar down on the guy’s head, and he’s slumping down to the ground before Steve can even get a hit in. Ten’s yanking at the other girl, pulling her away from Brenner, who Kali must be doing a _number_ on if his face is anything to go by, and she darts out of the room, dragging the girl out of the room by the wrists. 

“PAPA!” the girl shrieks, and Brenner shakes himself out of Kali’s dreamstate for a second, lunges for the girl; Nancy’s facing off with the other lady, blood dripping from her forearm. The lady’s holding a knife, huge smile like she’s proud, and Nancy hesitates a second too long, lets the woman slash at her again. Nancy drops the gun, swearing, and Steve smacks the lady in the back of the head with the bat. He tries not to get her with the nails, but she’s bleeding just a little as she falls to the ground. He doesn't regret it _at all._

Axel’s holding Brenner back by the arms, the crowbar at his feet, and Brenner’s _writhing_ , screaming at the top of his lungs. Kali’s nose is bleeding heavily, now, and she’s starting to fade a little. Nancy goes for the gun again, but before she can aim it, Kali grabs it from her. 

“Move, Axel,” she orders, and Axel steps back quick. Kali unloads the clip in Brenner, falls to her knees as he does, clutching at his chest and gasping for breath. Steve’s already over to Billy, who’s looking stunned, eyes half-open and pain writ large across his face, mouth bleeding and both eyes black. 

“Billy, B, baby, hi, are you okay?” Steve babbles as he tries to pull Billy up to stand. Billy lets out a whine of pain as Steve grabs his left wrist, and there’s a sickening movement of bone under Steve’s hand. He drops Billy’s wrist, goes under his armpits and pulls Billy up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. 

“M’sweater,” Billy manages to say through his bruised-up face, and Steve looks around frantic, confused. 

“I’ve got it, Billy,” Axel says, holding up a nasty, blood-covered sweater Steve recognizes, distantly. Billy relaxes, head lolling against Steve’s back, and Steve goes, jogging for the elevator as fast as he feels he can safely with Billy all fucked up over his shoulder. 

Ten’s fighting to keep the other girl still, arms wrapped around her in some _fucked-up_ version of a hug, and Kali goes over to help, looking chalky-pale but determined. 

“We are your family,” Kali says, voice full of emotions, “We’re here to help you. _He’s_ the monster, not you, and he’s gone, he’s _done,_ he’ll never make you do _anything, ever again._ ” 

“ _Papa,_ ” the girl wails, breaks into horrible sobbing screams. She’s stopped fighting Ten, but she sounds like her world is torn apart. 

“We gotta go, baby,” Austen says gently, pulls her into the elevator. Steve’s already in the elevator, and Nancy’s ignoring the cuts on her arms to check on Billy. 

“He’s not conscious, Steve,” she says frantically, but Billy had _said something_ earlier, and they’re going to speed back to Chicago, get him to Patti, she’ll know how to help, he’s sure. Billy will be _fine._

The elevator ride feels like it takes _eight years,_ but they finally get out of the building, Kali and Austen and Axel pushing the new girl ( _Twelve,_ his mind whispers to him) into the backseat. Nancy holds Billy up while Steve throws himself in the passenger seat, and she helps drape him over Steve’s lap, gets his feet inside the footwell and slams the door, shoves herself into the back along with everybody else. 

“Go, go, go!” she yells, and Jonathan guns it down River Avenue, back towards the highway. 

“You guys okay?” Jonathan asks once they merge into the fast lane, going probably fifteen over. The question is so absurd that Steve bursts into laughter, finds himself in tears, too.

“I left my bat,” he says stupidly, the first thing he can think of to say that’s not _we have Billy and he’s going to be okay_.

“Oh,” Jonathan says, clearly at a loss for words, and Nancy dissolves into giggles, too. Axel’s surprisingly neutral, rubbing Twelve’s back soothingly, and Kali has a murderous smile on her face. Austen’s crying, though, and Twelve hasn’t _stopped_ wailing since they exploded into Billy’s cell. 

The car lapses into silence as everyone’s adrenaline leaches away, suddenly exhausted by the flurry of violence; even Twelve calms down a little, breathing hard with the effort of crying. Axel’s still got Billy’s sweater bunched up in one hand, Steve notices when he looks back in the rear-view mirror, and with a shock, Steve recognizes it as the one he was wearing Friday night at the dance. The dance, the party--it all feels like it happened a thousand years ago, somehow, but Steve’s heart seizes a little at the idea of Billy having something of his for comfort, of refusing to leave without it even when he was in unbearable pain. 

Patti lives close to the clinic, and it only takes them about half an hour to get there with the way Jonathan’s driving. Steve could _kiss him_ , he’s so grateful. Steve and Nancy haul Billy up the stairs to Patti’s third-floor walkup, and she swings the door open before Steve can finish knocking. 

“Oh, baby,” she says, all horrified, and pulls them in, gestures to them to put Billy down on the couch, already draped with old towels. “Where’s everyone else?” she asks sharply, “Are they okay?” Patti’s already got her hands on Billy, feeling down his torso for anything broken.

“There’s another girl,” Nancy says, quiet, “Jonathan thought it’d be a good idea to let her scream it out in the car before they brought her up here where people might hear us. She’s pretty--brainwashed, still, I guess.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Patti sighs. “Nancy, bring me the-- _Nancy,_ baby, go wash those cuts _now,_ hot soapy water. There’s antibacterial soap on the kitchen sink.” Nancy looks down at her arms, seems surprised to find the long slashes there. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Nancy says, bewildered, and Patti clucks her tongue, not unkindly. 

“Steve, then, go put the kettle on, I’m sure all of you kids are gonna go into shock at some point today. Nancy, go wash those out and then wrap up in a blanket, Steve’ll bring you some tea when it’s ready.” Patti’s so efficient, cataloguing the injuries on Billy’s hands, which Steve’s only just now noticing are _mangled,_ fuck. 

Steve can’t stop looking at them, can’t even _process_ how strong Billy must’ve been to let that happen and not _break_. He feels glued to the floor until Patti barks his name, gestures with her head towards what must be the kitchen. He pulls Nancy along with him, supervises as she washes out the cuts. They’re mostly pretty shallow, a few deep places right around the bone that make Nancy hiss with pain when she washes them out. 

By the time he’s watched the water boil, made five or six cups of strong, sweet tea, the rest of them have come in from outside. Twelve looks broken, a little, but Ten and Kali are both standing protectively at her sides, daring Patti to say something. Twelve’s eyes are stuck on where Patti’s resetting Billy’s fingers, being gentle with the wrist she hasn’t dealt with yet. 

“I can help,” she whispers hoarsely, voice lower than he would’ve thought. She looks all focused inwards, like Kali and Ten and El all do when they use their powers, and the rest of Billy's fucked up finger joints start to straighten, fitting back in place with little _pops_ that make Steve nauseous. She wipes the blood from her nose matter-of-factly, and Patti looks at her all wide-eyed. 

“I can’t do his wrist, I’m too tired, sorry,” she says all small, and Ten pulls her into a hug. 

“You did _so good_ , baby,” Patti encourages her, “it’s a hard thing to set, anyways. Do you want to come watch me do it?” Twelve nods, steps out from behind her sisters and up close behind Patti. 

“Hand me two of those tongue depressors, honey, and then start pulling out some of that white tape,” Patti coaches her, pulling at Billy’s wrist. Billy lets out a moan, and Steve’s kneeling at Billy’s head before he realizes he’s moved at all. 

“Billy, you’re safe, we’ve got you,” Steve says, can hear himself babbling again. 

“Sorry,” he slurs, “Didn’ mean to get caught.” Steve’s confused, but Patti leaves Billy’s wrist half-wrapped and leans up to look Billy in the eye. 

“You don’t need to apologize, B, we’re just glad you’re--” Steve feels like his tongue is choking him, can’t finish his sentence. Tears are running down his face, _again,_ and Steve’s pretty sure he’s gonna be dehydrated for _weeks_ if he doesn’t stop fucking blubbering.

“Hand me that penlight, sweets,” Patti says to Twelve, pointing at a little flashlight thing on the floor, and she shines it in Billy’s eyes, back and forth from one to the other. He whimpers again, pathetic, and Steve finds his hand in Billy’s hair, smoothing it back from his face. It’s matted with sweat, sticky with something Steve doesn’t even want to _think about_ , but Billy smiles a little, until the split in his bottom lip makes him wince. 

“You’ve got a nasty little concussion,” Patti says, cool but not unfeeling, “And quite a few broken bones, baby. I’ll stabilize you here, and then we’ll get you over to the hospital.”

“M’sorry,” he slurs again, and “Hi, _princess_ , you hadda come rescue _me_ fr’m the drag’n, huh?” Steve laughs a little despite himself, presses a gentle kiss to the half-inch of Billy’s face that isn’t bruised. 

“I did, you damsel in distress,” he says back.

“D’nt leave me, please,” Billy says, looking Steve in the eyes, and Steve nods, can’t take his eyes away from Billy’s fucked up face, the determined set of Billy’s jaw mismatched with the glazed look in his eyes. The rush of feeling in Steve’s chest is something like love, and it scares him a little, _a lot_ if he’s honest, but _nothing_ could scare him like the idea of letting Billy out of his sight ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE DID IT, KIDS! Holy _shit_ this chapter was so hard to write; I meant to get it up yesterday but life has been doing its best to kick my ass this week, sorry!!! I hope the timing shifts made sense and everything--I know there was a lot of different points-of-view but I had to tell the story somehow, didn't I? You guys are SO GREAT and I'm so encouraged by all the kind words you leave me in the comments. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Sort-of Fun Notes**
> 
>   * The title of this chapter comes from a song called _(That's What You Do) When You're In Love_ by the Forester Sisters, a weirdly misogynistic country song about forgiving a man who cheats on you, but oh my GOD the like "you don't have to say you're sorry anymore 'cause honey I believe what you said" is absolute POETRY tbh.
>   * There's a concept in the world of helping professions (i.e. nursing, social work, therapy providers) called secondary trauma or vicarious trauma, which is where even though you aren't going through the trauma directly yourself, you can have PTSD-like symptoms from helping people who _are_ going through it, which is what Patti's talking about when she can't remember little shit. That's the most common (and, unfortunately, the most overlooked) symptom of secondary trauma is forgetting small details related to ones work.
>   * Austen is my lil baby and so is Twelve and I love BOTH OF THEM and y'all can pry them from my cold, dead hands. Austen's got a little precog situation going on, if that wasn't made clear, and I haven't exactly identified _what all_ Twelve's powers are, but they do certainly include both hurting and healing (based off of the D&D spell _Cure Wounds_ which can also be used as _Cause Wounds_ based on the caster's intent) and the ability to read minds more directly than any of the other sisters than Kali.
>   * I _hate_ writing violence because frankly I'm just not _great_ at it, but I'm really proud of this chapter, surprisingly. 
>   * I have some playlists up on youtube with the important playlists; the other ones are _massive_ playlists and I haven't gotten to them yet. Find them [right here!](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVGB_qQup88qdsksQi528DA?view_as=subscriber)
> 

> 
> **Warning for Torture:** Brenner forces a new gifted child, Twelve, to torture Billy physically by breaking his bones and causing what are _basically_ seizures. There isn't a lot of explicit description, but BE CAREFUL WITH YOURSELVES. If you want to avoid the description of exactly what Brenner makes her do, stop reading at "Wake up William" and start again after the point-of-view shift a few paragraphs later.
> 
>  
> 
> **In the next installment (up by Wednesday probably): there is a bedside vigil; El meets her newest siblings; Billy and Steve finally Talk Like Real Humans (tm)**
> 
> **ETA:** Hi real life and also a fun lil case of writer's block has me SHOOK so I'll probably wait to post until this weekend/next Monday. Sorry I'm Like This(tm)!!!!!!!!


	14. you pull me closer (and i feel no pain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which 2019 concussion protocol is_ not _followed appropriately, some kiddos get unofficially adopted, and EVERYONE IS EMOTIONALLY VULNERABLE WITH EACH OTHER._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babies!!! Thank you so much for being patient with me, this semester is almost over _and_ I'm having to take way more shifts than anticipated at my newest job so I had a little emotional/mental hump to get over to write this chapter. I initially had like five pages I _hated_ so I re-wrote those and now I'm like, pretty happy with this. Much love to you for all your kind words, you babes!!!
> 
>  **Warning for CONCUSSION:** There's a bunch of medical discussion, and a fair amount of it is....not particularly accurate. Also the depiction of visiting hours, etc. is not super accurate either.

Steve’s distantly aware of the world around him, but mostly what’s left of his hazy focus is on Billy. He can hear Jonathan’s voice, on the phone to _somebody_ , can see Axel and Kali and Ten all squished into and around an armchair, protecting Twelve while they explain everything they know about Brenner, smells something that must be Nancy, burning the edges of grilled cheeses like she always does, but he feels out of his body, feels like there’s _nothing_ that could be more important than Billy, right now at least. His heart’s _whoosh-whoosh_ ing in his ears, muffling the world in cotton wool, and he feels like the world is rushing by him while he’s stuck right here, listening to Billy breathe.

He’s kneeling on the floor at Billy’s head, one hand in Billy’s hair, the other useless on his lap, too afraid to hurt Billy to touch him anywhere else. Patti’s making the best with what she’s got in the house for triage, splinting Billy’s fingers with surgical tape and tongue depressors, icing his wrist down so they’ll be able to reset it a little easier if they need to, once they get him to the hospital later. They haven’t figured out a cover story yet, Steve remembers dreamily, but before he can strategize too hard, Billy’s groaning in pain. He sounds like he’s gonna surface from the fitful sleep he’d fallen into as soon as Patti had let him, and Steve hushes him, murmurs soothing nonsense and cards his fingers through Billy’s gross, sweaty hair to soothe him. Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he jumps, so lost in his own world he hadn’t noticed Nancy right behind him. 

“You should eat something,” she says, and she sounds like she’s talking to him underwater. He shakes his head to clear it, takes the plate she gives him. She _has_ singed the edges of the grilled cheese, but once he gets it close enough to really smell, he’s suddenly _ravenous_ , his body running on fumes. Patti looks over, distracted from her work on Billy, and narrows her eyes at him, assessing. 

“Nancy, honey, will you go get Steve some tea? Hot and sweet, please, he needs it.” Nancy nods, goes back into the kitchen, and when Patti turns her eyes back on him, she softens, smiles a little. “I’m taking good care of him, sugar, I promise. You being there, being gentle to him--it’s helping.” 

Her words soothe something wild inside him he hadn’t even realized was all riled up, fear and anger and hurt all tangled up in the pit of his stomach. He’s already swallowing the last bite of his sandwich, still a little hungry. The food and the steaming mug of tea Jonathan brings him help him come back into his body all the way, and he realizes he’s uncomfortable, kneeling next to Billy; his feet and lower legs are numb, and his back’s twisted a little awkwardly, so he can touch Billy without hurting him. He readjusts, sits flat on his butt with his legs out straight, hissing through the pins and needles. He doesn’t take his hand off Billy, though, keeps his fingers gentle in Billy’s hair. 

“We need a cover story,” Axel starts, once everybody’s sitting in the living room, the room still like in a church sanctuary, “We can’t exactly explain how a seventeen year old kid got his ass beat and all his fingers fucked up--sorry, T--” he winces an apology at Twelve, who waves him off, “with the truth.” 

“We say somebody caught him coming out of the clinic,” Steve says, monotone like _that’s_ gonna fool anybody in the room about how much shit he’s _feeling_ right now, “And beat the shit out of him for being gay.” 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Kali muses, “Considering the cops’ll never investigate something like _that_ seriously. We just have to make sure there aren’t any cops in the room when Billy wakes up lucid.”

“People say weird shit after head injuries, they’ll just chalk it up to the concussion,” Patti adds, half-focused on the conversation. “I’m almost done with what I can do, here, he’ll need to go to imaging when we take him to the ER, get a chest x-ray and probably an MRI for the concussion, but I’ve got his hands just about set.” 

“We probably won’t go to the hospital with you guys,” Axel says, looking over at Kali and the other girls. “It’d raise more questions than it answers, and Kali may or may not be, uh, a little _wanted for questioning_. Just say some good samaritan called you, Patti, from the clinic receipt in his pocket, found him on the street or something. He looks grimy enough, shit.”

“Then you’ll stay here,” Patti says, eyes bright on the motley crew still huddled around the armchair. “I’m not just letting y’all wander the streets, there’s no way you’ve got anywhere you can safely bring two children, not to mention you two look like you could use a safe-house too.” 

“We can’t stay,” Kali demurs, “We’ll put you at risk. There’s bad people out there, people who are probably still gonna be after us, even if they don’t have their _trusted leader_ to tell them how to do it anymore.” Her mouth twists all ugly around the mention of Brenner, but her eyes are calmer than Steve’s ever seen them. 

“Kali, if they’re looking for you and they know anything about Billy, they’re gonna find out about me eventually. Would you rather they find me _alone_ , with no one to protect me, or would you rather I have one of you kids there, just in case?” Patti makes a persuasive argument, probably the only one Kali will listen to, realistically. Kali closes her mouth abruptly, thinks for a second, look on her face like _how do I argue with that?_

“Okay,” Kali grumps after a minute, “but the babies stay out of it. Axel and I will be in charge of your security detail. I want them in school, I want them to be normal kids, as much as they can.” 

“Uh, Nancy and I have already thought about that,” Jonathan cuts in. “We--uh, Twelve, you’ve got another sister, El.” Twelve looks ecstatic, eyes bright with the idea of another person who understands the shit she’s been through. “She lives with Billy and Hopper, in Hawkins. I told Hopper about you two, he’s bringing paperwork for all of you guys with him and El and Max. It’ll mean you’d get benefits, Patti, if you wanna keep them around, to help pay for your rent and food and stuff.”

Ten looks _horrified_ at the idea of Patti giving them up, and Patti stands up, goes over to the armchair, pats Ten in the shoulder.

“Baby, if they want you back they’re gonna have to _fight me_ for it. I’ll keep you all as long as you’ll let me, it’ll get Auntie Augusta off my back about finding some man to _settle down and start a family with_. You’d be doing me a favor,” Patti smiles, and Austen relaxes again. 

“But if you’re gonna live with me, honey, you’ve gotta do something for me,” Patti continues, looking at Twelve. “You’ve gotta pick a name, something you _want_. It doesn’t feel right, calling you a number when you’re such a special person.” Twelve blushes bright, _almost_ as bright as Max, about being put on the spot. She’s just as pale as Max, but really _really_ blond instead, the kind of blond his mom calls _towheaded_. 

“Anne,” she says after a while. “Like _Anne of Green Gables_ , Anne with an e.”

“Have you read the books, Anne?” Nancy asks, cautious, and when Anne shakes her head no, “I’ve got the whole series, I’ll mail them to you so you can read them.” Anne smiles bright, the first real excitement she’s shown since they found her.

“Where’d you get the name then, kiddo?” Axel asks, tousling what little hair she’s got.

“Mary,” she whispers, quiet and a little afraid. “She used to think about Anne, _all alone in the world on the train_ , when she looked at me.” 

“Anne it is then, baby,” Patti says, reaching for Anne’s hand. When Anne reaches out her own hand, clearly a little afraid, Patti squeezes it gently, once, as if to say _I’ve got you_. Anne’s eyes fill with tears, and Kali and Ten rub her back, soothing her, surrounding her with love. 

“Jonathan, why don’t you go pull the car back around?” Patti asks, turning away to give the kids a little time to cry together. “Nancy, I’ll write down my phone number and what all I splinted for you, you can give it to them at the ER if they have any questions. I’ll stay here with the kiddos. 

“You call me when you get to the ER and get him settled. You gave Chief Hopper my address, right? I’ll send him to the hospital as soon as he gets here, but this way Max and El can have somewhere to chill out while we all wait. They’ll sedate him, so it’ll be a while before he’s ready for any visitors. If you take him to Northwestern Memorial and tell them it’s me who sent you, they should let Steve stay with him, until whoever’s _actually_ related gets there, at least.” Steve is _so glad_ he’s got Nancy here; if he were doing this alone, he’d _actually_ lose his mind, trying to be with Billy every second _and_ take care of everything else. 

“I’ll help you get Billy down to the car,” Axel offers, “I need a smoke, anyways.” They haul Billy downstairs, really careful, and he opens his eyes briefly on the way down, groans in pain when they jostle him on the second floor landing. 

“Sorry, B,” Steve murmurs, wincing in sympathy. “We’re gonna get you down to the car, you can lie down in the backseat. I’ll sit back there with you, okay?” Billy groans again, but it sounds affirmative, so he’ll take it. They get Billy situated, and there really isn’t room in the backseat for Steve, with Billy lying down almost flat, but Steve lifts Billy’s torso, puts Billy’s head in his lap, and hopes like _hell_ they don’t get pulled over on the way to the hospital. 

He rolls down the window so he and Axel can talk while they’re waiting for Nancy to come downstairs. Axel lights up a Camel, and Steve’s eyes start watering, _fuck,_ at the memory of Billy’s Newports, the mint-scented smoke that surrounds him so much of the time. Billy smells _bad_ right now, and Steve aches for Billy to just, like, _be okay,_ to smirk at him and call him princess and make the bed almost too hot to share. 

“He’s gonna be okay,” Axel says, offhand. “He’s a strong motherfucker. He’s had broken fingers before, right?” Steve nods, the memory of Billy fumbling his zippo to light Steve’s cigarette with his fingers taped together flooding his mind. “Well, they wouldn’t have kept fucking with his hands if they’d known that, they woulda done something else, something _worse_. Billy musta been one tough motherfucker, to let them fuck with his hands and not show them it had happened before. They fuck with you, get in your head so they know how to hurt you the most.”

Steve knows this, logically, but hearing somebody else confirm it makes him _hurt_ , makes his heart break a little more. He’s got his hands in Billy’s hair again, for lack of anything else to do with them, and he nods at Axel’s words, trying to firm up his chin. 

“He’s a brave guy,” Steve manages eventually, once he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna cry or anything embarrassing like that. “So’re you, though, we couldn’t have gotten Billy out safe if you weren’t there, thanks for the help.”

“You know how Kali and I met?” Axel asks, out of nowhere, weird note in his voice that Steve can't quite place. “She was this skinny little street kid, maybe fourteen, and I was _fucked up_ on coke, had been for days. I was exhausted, coming down finally, and I see this ratty little skinhead kid, crying in an alley. She flinched when I got close, but I had a pretty safe space to squat, at the time, and she had nowhere else to go. 

“I bought her McDonalds and took her to the apartment, and she started fucking with me, flashing all the shit I’ve ever been scared of into my head, but since most of it had already _happened_ , she couldn’t scare me too bad. I just thought it was some bad coke or something, figured she’d run away by morning, but when I woke up after a fourteen hour nap she was still there, sitting in the corner of the room looking like a dog somebody’s beat one too many times, ready to fight if she had to but terrified anyways. I knew right away, just looking at her, that I was gonna help her kill everybody who’d ever made her afraid. I don’t know if she’s gonna want me to, though, now that she’s got her _real_ family.” Axel sounds sad, scared. 

“I’m alone now, if she doesn’t want me. All my other friends are dead, drugs or AIDS or stupidity. I just--” Axel runs out of words, stops suddenly.

“Kali’s up there _right now_ , talking about how you saved her ass and the other girls can trust you with their lives, Axel. She’s not trying to get rid of you anytime soon, silly,” Nancy says, throwing herself into the front seat. “So go up there and be nice to the girls. Austen still hasn’t said where she’s been, the last three years, but I’d bet you it’s not anywhere good. They need you, need somebody who hasn’t been so _fucked up_ by Brenner and his cronies that they can’t tell up from down.” Axel smiles, encouraged, grinds out his cigarette under the toe of his Doc Marten. 

“Well, guess I’d better tell her about how I made it through a couple years alone on Chicago then, huh?” His shoulders are sitting lower now, less anxious. “Steve, I swear to _god_ if you don’t tell this idiot how you feel about him as soon as he’s conscious enough to understand you, I’ll kidnap him myself, make you work to get him back, idiot.” He taps fists with Jonathan and Steve, waves at Nancy on the other side of the car. “Now go, _get thee to a nunnery_ or whatever!”

 

They take Billy back right away, when Jonathan and Steve bring him in; apparently, the fact that he’s not fully conscious is, like, _pretty concerning,_ according to the nurse who brings him back into an empty room. Initially, she hadn’t wanted to let him back, but when he’d name-dropped Patti, she’d sighed _lord, let me not piss off that unholy terror today_ and motioned him back with her. 

Billy’s...somewhere, getting MRIs and x-rays and shit, and Steve’s alone in the hospital room. It smells _cold_ a little, antiseptic and shit, and he’s pretty sure Billy’s gonna hate it, but since Billy’s still pretty much unconscious and they’d started him an IV with morphine in it pretty much the second Nancy’d handed over the list of what all Patti had done for him before she’d sent him in, Steve doesn’t figure he’ll have to hear Billy bitch about it for a while at least. Steve’s resting his eyes, not sleeping but letting the world go quiet around him, when they wheel Billy back in on a gurney, lock the wheels. The same nurse who’d brought him back is there, hooking Billy up to a bunch of beeping, dinging machines. 

“Thank you, uh, ma'am,” Steve says gruffly, looking past her at Billy, looking pale and exhausted on the hospital bed. “I appreciate you letting me stay with him, it, uh, it means a lot.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says, all professional. “My name’s Susan. I’ll be here until eight, then another nurse’ll be in to take over. William here,” she pulls up the sheet and the blanket around Billy’s chest, pulling his arms out carefully, “Is probably gonna be asleep until shift change at least. We'll have to come check on him every hour or so, make sure everything's okay in there, but if he wakes up and starts getting agitated, you poke your head out and let me or one of the other nurses know. I’ll send in his guardian, once he gets here, and if you promise not to be a menace to the other staff, I’ll even let you stay. Technically we aren’t supposed to, but he looks like he needs you around.” 

Steve thanks her again, and when she leaves, he pulls his hard plastic chair over to the bedside, between all the beeping machines, and sits his vigil. He’s not exactly religious, and neither are his parents, but he’s pretty sure he remembers the Lord’s Prayer, and he figures even if God doesn’t care about Steve, he might care about Billy, given the saint’s medal Steve’s never seen him without. 

Suddenly nervous about it, Steve moves the neck of Billy’s hospital gown, finds the chain and pulls it out, places it gently over Billy’s sternum. He prays what he can remember, resting his eyes on Billy’s face instead of closing his eyes, and eventually he falls asleep. 

 

He wakes up to Hopper, shaking his shoulder gently. 

“Hey, kid, wake up,” Hopper’s whispering, and Steve wakes with a start, shaking his head against the horrible dream he’d been in the middle of, a new nightmare to add to his catalogue: a Billy, bruised and broken, who _won’t wake up_ , who’s dead weight on Steve’s shoulder as he runs down a hallway that only gets longer the faster he runs. 

“Hmm?” Steve says, still only half-awake. 

“Hey, kid,” Hopper releats, tired smile on his face. “You wanna go get some rest in the lobby? Nancy and Jonathan went back to Patti’s, but there’s a waiting room with some couches they said are pretty comfortable, at least for a nap.”

“No,” Steve says, before he can consider it too much, “I’ll stay.” 

“Okay, son, but I’m gonna make you go lie flat for a while, soon. They’ve still got Billy under for the time being, they said he’ll probably sleep all night, minus when they wake him up to check on him. Apparently, Patti did a good job getting all his hands and shit reset, they had to re-wrap stuff but it was all in the right place. Otherwise, he’s got a couple nasty broken ribs, a bunch of soft-tissue stuff, and a _monster_ of a concussion, but nothing permanent, he’s gonna be okay. We should be able to take him home Tuesday, provided he wakes up tomorrow and has a pretty good grasp on what’s going on.” 

Hearing that Billy’s gonna be _okay_ , for real, makes Steve feel floaty with relief, makes him want to _sing_ or something else fucking dumb. 

“Thank god,” Steve says, exhausted but so, so glad. “He, uh, he didn’t tell anybody anything about El or anything else, we don’t think.”

“I know, kid, I heard the full rundown from Kali and Axel when I dropped the girls off at Patti’s. That drive’s a _bitch_ , especially with two teenage girls who alternate between hugging and crying and yelling at each other, oh my god I almost want to leave El here.” 

“How’d you get Max up here?” Steve asks, remembering something about the world he feels like he’s left behind in Hawkins. 

“Well, I may or may not have threatened to have Neil thrown in jail if he didn’t let me have Max, but I did promise she’d be coming home tomorrow. Nancy and Jonathan have to be home tomorrow too, Joyce is freaking out with Jonathan in the big city and Mrs. Wheeler almost had an __aneurysm when she found out where Nancy was. I figure they can all take your car home, and if you want, you can stay here and drive Billy’s car home on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, my ‘rents won’t be home til then anyways, and I _really_ couldn’t give much of a shit about them having their _perfect Christmas_ if Billy’s still here.” Hopper looks at him hard for a second, like he’s about to start lecturing, so Steve deflects. “So Kali and Axel told you everything?” 

“Yeah, kid, everything, about Brenner and everybody else. They said you were the one who came up with the plan, and I’m proud of you for that, Steve, it could’ve gone haywire if you hadn’t stepped up. El’s so excited to have another two sisters, I think we might have to have some sort of x-man summer camp this year, to get the other girls up to snuff to start school.”

“That could be cool, it’ll give me something to do instead of working for my dad or something, _shit,”_ Steve says, and Billy stirs, shakes his head back and forth a few times like he’s trying to clear it. “Uh, the nurse said when he wakes up we should tell them, I guess I’ll go let them know.”

“Okay, Steve, but after that go take a goddamn nap, you need it, clearly. You’ve got bags under your eyes like suitcases. I’ll stay with him, I’ll come get you when he wakes up for good. Patti’s got all the kids tonight, they’re sleeping in her spare room and on her couch and shit, I brought a ton of blankets for ‘em to have another sleepover. You think Kali’s gonna corrupt Max any more this time?” Hopper asks, and Steve’s caught between a laugh and a yawn. 

“Yeah, probably,” he says, standing up, and Hopper pushes him out the door, sighing all dramatic about Max’s _immortal soul_ or something. The nurse nods when she tells him about Billy, points him toward the family waiting room and is off towards Billy’s room before he can turn the corner, syringe in hand. The waiting room smells just as much like antiseptic as the rest of the hospital, but the reclining chairs they’ve got are _way_ more comfortable, and Steve’s asleep before he can worry about Billy, almost. 

_______________

 

Billy wakes up _hard_ , feeling like he’s coming back into his body all at once. Everything hurts, and the lights are so _bright_ even through his eyelids, and his mouth is _so dry_. He lets the pain wash over him, lets it settle into his hands and his head and his ribs so sharp he can’t hardly breathe. He’s not sure _where_ exactly he is; it smells like a hospital, all disinfectant and bleached linens and somewhere underneath it all, the rank scent of human sickness, but he’s not sure. He wouldn't put it past Brenner to do something like this, honestly.

Once he’s got the pain under control, once it’s been isolated into parts he can push to the back of his mind, he opens his eyes, slow against the fluorescent lights. He _is_ in a hospital, and when he can finally get his eyes to focus on the bright shapes around him, El and Hopper and Max are all there, sitting in those uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Max is asleep at the foot of the bed, head pillowed on her arms; El and Hopper are turned away, watching _Jeopardy!_ on the tiny little TV in the corner of the room and whispering the answers to each other. 

“What is the Allies?” El says, and dances a little in celebration when Alex pronounces it the right answer. Billy finds himself smiling, as much as he can given how awful his face feels, _oh God_. Claude must’ve done more of a number on him than he’d realized. The nerdy-looking guy at the far-right podium says _Foreign Phrases for 400 please, Alex,_ and Billy knows the answer. 

“What is _haute cuisine?_ ” he tries to say; his throat is so dry it comes out all croaky and horrible. El and Hopper both turn around like they’ve seen (heard?) a ghost, and El lets out a sharp shriek that wakes Max. She looks around disoriented for about half a second, and then they’re both throwing themselves onto his bed, more careful than he would’ve expected from either of them, Max already dissolving into tears. 

“We thought you were gonna DIE!” Max wails, and El rolls her eyes a little, elbows Max in the side. 

“You took _a long time_ to wake up, Billy,” El says all calm and cool, as if he can’t see the tears in her eyes, either. 

“He did,” Hopper cuts in, “But now he’s awake and he’s _fine_. Go tell everybody in the waiting room, okay, and let the nurses know. Be _polite_ to the staff, please, they did us a favor letting everybody stay all day.” The girls both scramble off the bed, very carefully lean in to kiss his cheek one after the other, and run out of the room, slowing down when a nurse snaps at them a little in the hallway. 

“How you feeling, kid?”

“Fucking _bad_ ,” Billy says, trying to stretch out his neck. They have him propped up on about six hundred pillows, and his neck’s got an awful crick in it, in addition to all the rest of the pain singing through him.

“Yeah, doesn’t surprise me, kid. You fucking _scared us_ , getting kidnapped like that.” Hopper opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something, stops all awkward, rubs at the back of his neck while he figures out what he’s gonna say. Billy wishes he’d just come out with it. “I, uh, I owe you an apology, son--I mean, uh, Billy.” Billy bites his lip, feels awful about the shit he’d said to Hopper when they’d fought.

“I, uh, I don’t mind if you call me that, Hop,” Billy stutters, too drugged up to keep his big mouth shut, and Hop smiles at him, small but hopeful. If Hop says anything about it, Billy’ll just blame it on the painkillers he assumes must be in his system, though they aren’t doing much to help him right this second. The IV bag hanging from the cart next to his bed is clear, no clues there, but he can tell there’s something a little bit _off,_ like all the colors in the room are a little bit too vibrant. 

“Well, alright then, I won’t stop myself from saying it. I _am_ sorry, though, that I made you feel like you couldn’t stay in Hawkins. I didn’t mean to smother you. I’m glad you’re, uh, glad you’re safe, kid.” Hopper is _laughably_ bad at apologies, Billy thinks, and only stops himself from saying so out loud by making himself remember the heartbreak on El’s face when he’d left her at the cabin. 

“I’m sorry I was an asshole, I was just--” Billy starts, but Hopper interrupts him before he can get going.

“Don’t apologize, Billy, not right now. You’re gonna have to let everybody worry about you for a while now, kid. The girls were _furious_ with me for pissing you off, and then even more mad for not throwing them in the car and coming straight here when we found out, you shoulda heard them complaining the whole damn way here. 

“Steve hasn’t left the hospital since they brought you in, you know. He’s gonna look like hell, but he’s okay.” At the unspoken question on Billy’s face, Hop goes on, “They’re all fine, Anne and Austen and Kali and Axel and Nancy and Jonathan too.” _Austen? Anne?_ Billy’s fucking _confused,_ and thinking about it only makes his head hurt. He doesn’t recognize the names, but, then again, he doesn’t remember anything after Brenner’d made that little girl hurt him the first time, now that he thinks about it. It’s probably for the best, really. 

A nurse comes bustling into the room, checks all his vitals. Hopper stands there awkwardly as the nurse checks him out, asks him a bunch of questions about his name and date of birth and who the president is and shit while she does it. She’s good, professional but so calm that he’s soothed just by listening to her make little humming affirmative noises when he answers her questions. 

“My name’s Amelia, I’ll be your nurse until eight tonight, so you know who to tell your visitors to ask for if you want something later,” she says, then asks, “On a scale from one to ten, one being a stubbed toe and ten being _I’m about to die right this second_ , how bad is your pain, Billy?”

“My head’s probably, like, a seven,” he guesses, trying not to think about it (or _anything else_ ) too hard. “My hands hurt like hell, and I’ve probably got some broken ribs in there that don’t feel great, so I guess bodily like a five or a six?” She sucks her teeth a little, makes a mark on her chart. 

“I’m gonna go grab you some more pain meds to push, it’s just about time for your next dose. They’ll probably make you really groggy, and you’ll probably be ready for a nice nap in a little while, okay, so make sure you kick your visitors out so you can get some rest, okay? The doc should be in here shortly to check you out, make sure you’re where we want you recovery-wise,” she smiles, and he’s alone with Hopper again. 

“Who’re Austen and Anne?” Billy asks, feeling like he’s a half-step behind the rest of the world. 

“Oh, uh, Ten and Twelve, I guess,” Hopper tries to say casually, as if that’s nt gonna get Billy’s attention right away. 

“There are more?”

“Yeah, bud, Kali’s eight and now we’ve found Ten and Twelve. Anne’s pretty sure there aren’t any other ones, though, so that’s good at least,” Hopper says, quick like he’s ripping off a bandaid. Before Billy can do anything stupid like rip his IV out and go hunting for Brenner or something, there’s a huge commotion of people coming into his room, all talking at him at once. 

“Oh, Billy, we’re so glad you’re okay,” Nancy says, and Jonathan’s nodding along behind her, a steady, quiet spot in the room. There are bandages along her arms, and Billy feels like he _should_ remember where they’re from, but as he pokes around in his mind for anything about when they rescued him, he realizes there’s a big blank spot, like somebody took white-out to his memories. 

“Did you hear Kali got to SHOOT A GUY?” Max yells all excited, and a tall, dark-eyed girl Billy didn’t recognize suddenly melts into Kali and claps a hand over Max’s mouth to shut her up, rolling her eyes at him. 

“Proud of you for not snitching,” Axel says, faux-threatening, and Kali uses the back of her other hand so smack him on the chest, hissing something under her breath at him. “ _What?_ I _am!_ " he complains.

“Sorry,” a girl holding El’s hand all but whispers, and Billy recognizes her suddenly as the girl who’d fucked him up at Brenner’s demand. 

“It’s okay, Anne,” he says, hoping he’s got her name right. She smiles at him shyly, won’t look directly at him. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“I _told you, you worrywart,_ ” the tall, skinny black girl next to her hisses, and El and Anne look up at her with such identical looks of _how could you be mean to a poor little weirdo like me_ that Billy has to laugh, wonders if they’re actually related. 

“I’m gonna go find Steve,” Hopper announces, looking overwhelmed by the noise and emotion of the room.

“He’s in the cafeteria, I made him go get something to eat,” Nancy says across the bed, “He’s gonna be _so mad_ he wasn’t here when Billy woke up.” 

Billy’s a little overwhelmed, honestly, and when Amelia comes back in, clucks her tongue at everybody until they move out of the way, he’s grateful. When she sticks a syringe of something into his IV and pushes the plunger down, he’s a little bit _less_ happy with her; whatever she’s put in kinda _hurts,_ a little tingly and really fucking cold. 

“Alright, guys, I’m gonna have to kick you guys out for a little while, let Billy here get used to the meds. He’ll be awake again in probably an hour, you can all come back and say hello for real then, okay?” She gently but firmly pushes them out, smiling as she ignores Max’s vocal complaints. 

“Press the call button if you need me, Billy,” she adds as she steps out, and Billy’s alone for the first time since--since _everything_ , really. It’s almost as overwhelming as everyone talking to him at once had been, realizing he’s missing almost two days and there are more girls who were experiments and that Steve hasn’t left his side since he’s been out, apparently, which, _what does that even mean?_ and he’s about to spiral into an anxiety attack when he hears someone’s sneakers, squeaking on the linoleum in the hallway, _fast._

When he opens his eyes, it’s Steve, standing in the doorway, looking like a sleep-deprived _angel_. Billy’s starting to feel the pain meds, his tongue feeling a little too big for his mouth and his body feeling like it’s wrapped in cotton wool. Billy feels like he’s _floating_ now, like he’s just hanging out above all the pain his body’s feeling. 

“Hi babe,” Billy says, the pain meds making his voice thick with emotion, “Are you okay?” Steve looks sad, Billy realizes, exhausted and overwhelmed and, maybe, _happy?_ It’s hard to tell, with the mix of emotions on Steve’s face and the drugs making him a little loopy. 

He tries to reach his hands up to Steve for a hug, but his right hand’s got an IV coming out of the top of it and he’s attached to about sixty-five different wires and shit, plus there are all these splints and tape on his hand he thinks should probably hurt. His left hand _does_ actually still hurt, _bad,_ and when he actually looks at it for the first time, it’s got a cast spanning his palm, wrist, and half his forearm and more finger splints.

“I missed you,” he adds as Steve’s opening his beautiful, soft mouth to say something. “I ruined your sweater, too, I hope you aren’t mad at me.” The idea of Steve _mad at him_ , Steve being anything but happy to see him, is so sad that Billy’s pretty sure he starts crying, feels the tears rolling down his face distantly. 

“ _Pretty please_ don’ be mad at me, princess.” He’s pretty sure he should be embarrassed right now, but it seems like the “shame” part of his brain has been shut off along with his pain receptors. 

“I--” Steve tries to say something, but he looks stuck for a second, breathes out a laugh instead. “I’ll give you your own sweater, bab--Billy.” He drags a chair over to where Billy is, curls a hand around Billy’s upper arm, squeezes just a little as if he’s saying _hi, I’m here_. 

“Mmmmm, wan’ yours though,” Billy slurs, too tired and soothed by Steve’s presence to actually dredge up decent diction. 

“You can have all of them if you want, B,” Steve says, voice all soft like he’s gonna _cry_ or something.

“Don’ cry, shug, y’r so _pretty_ ,” Billy can’t help but say, looking at Steve’s sweet, handsome face. “Like an _angel_. ‘M so lucky I got t’ kiss’shew once.” Steve blushes hard, hides his face against Billy's shoulder for a second.

“When you get better and we _talk about it,_ Billy, you can kiss me as many times as you want, okay?” Steve murmurs, all sweet. He presses a kiss to Billy’s forehead, and Billy lets himself float for a minute, joy soaring in him like his heart’s an _eagle_ or some shit. He’s _fucked up_ right now. 

“Hello, Mr. Hargrove,” the doctor announces as she comes in, “Let’s get you checked out, eh? I know you’re gonna be a little groggy, with the pain meds, but your MRI didn’t show anything we’re too worried about, and with the other injuries we didn’t want to make you suffer unnecessarily, huh?

“Amelia said you were answering questions okay earlier, so that’s a good sign. Just follow this light with your eyes for me, please,” the doctor goes on, passing a penlight around for his eyes to follow. “And I know your hands are hurting, so if you’ll just squeeze my hand between your bicep and your forearm, hard as you can, like that, thanks.” Billy squeezes the doctor’s hand between his arm like he’s doing a bicep curl, laughs the whole time. 

“Okay, Mr. Hargrove, you’re doing great. We’re probably gonna keep you overnight again tonight, just to make sure there aren’t any complications we haven’t seen yet. I’ll have Amelia bring you something to eat, so we can see how you’re tolerating food. We’ll get you home by Christmas, okay?” The doc smiles, scribbles a couple notes on his chart, and leaves. Billy drifts again, happy Steve’s still with him, touching him all sweet and saying nice things to him. 

“I brought you some broth, it’s all you can have for a little while until we can make sure you’re done puking, okay?” Amelia says when she comes in again, carrying one of those weird plastic hospital food trays Billy doesn’t miss _at all_ from the last time somebody put him in the hospital. 

Billy tries to lift his right hand to the cup of soup she puts on his bedside table thing, but he’s terrified he’s gonna rip out the IV by accident, plus he realizes distantly that he’s not gonna be able to hold the cup with his fingers all splinted up. Amelia passes Steve a straw, and he opens it up, puts it in the cup of soup, and holds it up to Billy’s mouth. There’s an awkward moment where Billy’s so gooey and _smiley_ for Steve that the mouthful of soup he sucks up drips out of his mouth onto his hospital gown, and he hears Amelia crack up as she leaves the room. 

“You scared the _shit_ out of me, you know that?” Steve says, all mad like he gets at the kids when they aren’t where he expects them to be, “You’re never allowed to get kidnapped again, I’ll _kick your ass._ ”

“‘M’not planning on it,” Billy smiles, big and toothy, spilling more soup down his front. Distantly, he feels a tugging at his lip, a pain that’s probably a cut or something, but it’s so far away he ignores it, smiles wider at Steve. “Glad y’shaved me, Shteve.” 

“Go to sleep, baby, I’ll be here. I’ll stay with you, okay?” Steve’s smiling big now too, dabbing at the soup running down Billy’s neck with a scratchy napkin. Billy does, soothed by Steve’s voice, humming a song under his breath and the meds and the warmth of Steve’s hand on his upper arm. 

 

He wakes up a little while later to everybody in his room again, all talking quietly. Max and Steve are making faces at each other from across Billy's bed, which is _cute as hell_ until Billy’s brain deciphers what they’re arguing about. 

“--say bye before we have to _leave_ , Steve, I’m not gonna get to see him until _after Christmas_ otherwise, you _asshole_ ,” Max hisses.

“He’s asleep, they woke him up every two hours last night so they could make sure his brain didn’t _leak out his ears_ , we need to let him rest.” Steve is really and truly the party mom, Billy thinks as he opens his eyes.

“‘M up, Max, say bye and _get out_ so I can go back to sleep,” Billy jokes, or, well, he’s halfway joking anyways. He loves her, but his fucked up painkiller dreams have been full of her yelping words from where she’s apparently been sitting at his bedside talking and he’s ready to have some, like, _slightly_ more chill dreams, thank you very much.

“Hi, Billy, we have to go home because Neil threatened to _shoot_ Hopper if he didn’t bring me back by tonight and Hopper said he’d love to arrest him but he doesn’t really wanna get shot right before Christmas,” Max says, louder than she needs to be but surprisingly quiet, for who she is.

“Glad you’re okay,” El says at a normal human volume, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek--thankfully, not the fucked-up one. 

“Max,” Steve starts, all indignant on Billy’s behalf or something, “Don’t stress him out, you _shitbird._ ” Out of the corner of his eye, Billy sees Hopper and Nancy share a glance, stifle a laugh.

“Well, I’m gonna be home tomorrow, you _weirdos_ , I’ll see you then,” Billy tries to deflect, but Max and El give him twin glares that make him backtrack. “Alright, alright, I’ll miss you too. Max, I’ll try to come pick you up Wednesday, so you can go Christmas shopping like you’ve been procrastinating. You guys’re tough, you’ll make it until then.” Max flushes red, but nods, kissing his cheek. 

“Bye, kids, we’ll see you tomorrow when we get home. El even volunteered to do the dishes for a whole _week_ while you recover, Billy, what a magnanimous teenager I have raised,” Hopper laughs, and El gives him the stink-eye, too. “Now, for real, go. I don’t want you guys on the road after dark, Nancy’s a good driver but the roads are gonna be kind of a clusterfu--uh, a cluster, this close to Christmas.”

“Bye, Billy, we’ll see you day after Christmas,” Nancy smiles, and Jonathan echoes her. Max complains to Nancy about having to go home all the way to the elevator, so loud Billy can hear it from his hospital bed. He hopes she never changes. 

“They said they’re gonna try to take you off the pain meds today, bud,” Hopper says, wincing a little. “If it gets real bad, they’ll give you something strong, but for now you’re stuck without. If you do have to have anything strong, you’ll have to stay overnight, which would make Christmas Eve kind of a bummer for you.”

“I mean, having the worst fucking headache in the world isn’t gonna make my Christmas Eve awesome, either, Hop,” Billy says, rolling his neck like that’s gonna relieve any pressure in his head.

“Shit,” Steve swears, nearly jumping out of his chair. “I haven’t told my parents where I am, they’re gonna be _so pissed_ tomorrow if they get home and I’m not there. I’ve gotta go leave the house a message and call their hotel.” He speed-walks out of the room and down the hall, sneakers squeaking the whole way. 

“Is he--okay?” Billy asks, once he can’t hear Steve anymore. “Like, with everything--I know Max said Kali shot some guy, but I don’t really know what happened, I, uh, don’t remember much, really.”

“Ten---Austen, the tall girl who was with Kali and Axel earlier--she’s got some kind of precognition, so she saw how many of them were in your, uh, your room, so Axel and Nancy and Steve dealt with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, the two cronies, and then Ten pulled Anne out and Kali grabbed the gun from Nancy and, uh, well, let’s just say we won’t have to worry about _Brenner_ coming for any of the kids, now,” Hop explains. 

“He and Nancy didn’t do anyone any permanent damage, but I think it fucked both of them up a little, watching Kali. Austen and Anne didn’t see anything too bad, but Steve and Nance had a front row seat. It was all Steve’s plan, you know, and it’s fucking _hard,_ to watch somebody die in front’a you like that.”

“I know,” Billy says, quiet, and he _does_. “Hey, Hop, you know I really _am_ fuckin’ sorry about what I said, the other day. It was a shitty thing to say, and I don’t even really think it’s true.”

“I’d already planned on forgiving and forgetting, so if you can do the same thing for me I figure we’re even,” Hopper answers, all casual like he’s not just giving Billy a free pass for being the _world’s biggest asshole._ “Although I am gonna make you apply to at least one college, even if it’s a local one. I won’t make you hang out with Miss Marsden, though, she fucking _sucks._ " hearing Hopper complain about her make Billy huff out a laugh, glad it's not just him. 

“Joyce has this whole _thing_ about how you kids need to see somebody, too, to talk about your shit. She found a really good counselor for Will, I’m gonna make you go to a couple’a those appointments, too. I can’t _make you_ talk to her, but Will says he really likes the gal, he wants to tell you all about it when you get home. It can wait until you heal up a little bit, though, they said you need to avoid stress or hard thinking and, knowing you, it’ll be a little bit of both to even _think_ about a counseling appointment now.”

“That’s fair,” Billy agrees after a minute of silence. “Only a couple meetings, though?”

“Yeah, kid, that’s fine. I think I’m gonna see if she’ll see El, too; Patti said she thought it was a good idea for all the girls to see somebody.”

“So she’s keeping Ten and Twelve?’ Billy asks. “How’s she gonna pay for two teenagers, she’s just a nurse, they make _shit,_ you know.”

“She gets benefits from the government, same shit she’d get if they were in foster care, plus the government’s all fucked up about people knowing about the whole _human experiment_ thing so she gets some hush money, too.” That’s a good enough answer for Billy, but while he’s mulling that over, he realizes something else. 

“Are you having to pay for me to be in here?” Billy asks, morbidly curious. Is Billy even able to _have_ medical debt? Will it be in Neil’s name or something? He hopes fucking _not,_ shit. 

“Not much, kid, I’ve had you on my insurance since a week after I signed the paperwork, the city has good benefits, we’re fine.” Billy bristles a little at the implication, but he spent plenty of time while Brenner’s guys had him thinking about everything, about Steve and Hopper and shit, how he would need to act if he wanted to keep them around. 

“Thanks, I guess,” Billy says, trying a hard as he can not to let any resentment creep into his voice. 

“I know you hate it, kid, but if I’m your guardian, I gotta take care of you like I’m supposed to, or I’d be no better than Neil.”

“I guess,” Billy grimaces, but he doesn’t have to think about shit like this right now, he’s not supposed to, from what he remembers of concussion protocol from the _last_ time he’d been in the hospital. Steve comes back in then, hospital tray in his hands. 

“You’re still only cleared for clear foods, I guess, but you can have some Jello after your broth,” he says as if that’s an encouragement. Billy wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

“What color Jello?” he asks, instead of being grumpy at Steve. 

“Uh, let me check,” Steve says, lifting the cover off the food. “Orange?” He looks up at Billy hopefully, but Billy hates orange almost as much as he hates green. 

“You couldn’t’a used your royal powers to get me anything _good_ like red Jello, huh?” Billy bitches, winking outrageously. He feels like he’s lost all his flirting skills since they fucked with his head; Amelia isn’t even charmed by him when she comes in to check on him, now. There’s a flush spreading down Steve’s neck, though, and Billy can’t help but wonder how far down it goes. Steve’s smiling this secret little smile at him, looking at Billy from under his eyelashes, and Hopper lets out a disgusted sigh.

“I’m gonna go try to get some of the good nurses station coffee,” Hopper excuses himself, rolling his eyes at the both of them as he steps out. 

“Oh, shit,” Billy says, suddenly remembering how fucking _embarrassing_ he’d been when Steve had been here earlier. “Sorry I, like, was an idiot earlier.”

“Are you?” Steve asks, a little teasing, “I mean, to be fair, the dribbling soup down your front was pretty gross,” Steve wrinkles his nose, “But you were being all _sweet_ , I kinda liked it.”

“Oh, I’ll be _sweet_ to you, baby,” Billy leers, licking his lips theatrically. Steve laughs, happy and long. 

“I have no doubt you’ll be _that kind_ of sweet, you _horndog_ ,” Steve jokes, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Billy want to reassure him, some note of sadness that makes Billy feel like garbage for trying to make light of everything.

“I can be regular nice to you, too, if you want,” Billy tries again, all quiet, and Steve looks up at him quick, like he’s surprised. It gives Billy a reason to be honest, more honest than he’s been with himself in months, probably. “I, uh, _shit_ , I--you’re all I thought about, really, when, uh, before you guys found me.”

“Really?” Steve’s voice is all weird, teetering between heartbreak and hope or whatever, and Billy nods, unable to meet Steve’s eyes. If Steve _does_ get all grossed out or something, Billy’ll just, like, avoid him for _the rest of time_ , skip town as soon as he graduates, never come back to Hawkins. It’ll be _fine_ , he tries to convince himself as Steve sits there all quiet. 

“I, uh, Hopper’s been teaching me to shoot for a while,” Steve starts haltingly, and Billy’s heart sinks. If Steve’s deflecting to Hopper, he _must not_ want anything from Billy. Shit. “And, uh, he wouldn’t give me a gun, when we found out and decided me and Nance and Jonathan were gonna come find you. He, uh, he said anyone who was as _emotionally compromised_ as I was didn’t need a gun. And, well, he was right, probably. I would’ve shot _every one of those assholes_ , if I’d had the chance, and I would’ve felt like _shit_ about it, later, but I wouldn’t have regretted it for a second.”

“Do you, uh, _shit,_ this is so much harder than it was with Nancy, do you wanna go on a date, when we get home?” Steve’s bright red when Billy steals a glance at him, poking at Billy’s gross orange jello with a spork. “I, uh, I get it, if you don’t, I’m kind of _high maintenance_ and I’m fucking _stupid_ and I--” Billy can’t _stand_ hearing Steve talk himself down like this, so he interrupts. 

“I do, of course I do, are you _blind?_ ” Billy says, looking directly at Steve finally. “I think you’re _smart as hell_ , what with the way you fucking saved my life yesterday, and I _like_ high maintenance, you know that? I like having to _work for it_ , and it doesn’t surprise me that you need a lot of attention, _princess_.” He doesn’t mean to let so much innuendo seep into his voice, but it’s hard not to, looking at Steve’s big wet eyes and wide, smiling mouth and the blush still staining his face. He wants to kiss Steve, _so bad_ , but he’s stuck in this fucking _bed_.

“Come here,” he says, finally, when Steve seems like he’s stuck, looking at Billy’s stupid soft fucking face. “Come give me a kiss, asshole, I’m stuck in this fucking bed.” Steve does, and it’s almost as good as it had been the night of the party, Steve all sweet and pushy as he kisses the hell out of Billy. It’d be even better, if Billy could get his hands on Steve and his head didn’t hurt quite so bad. All of a sudden, a warning starts dinging on one of Billy’s machines, and Steve makes a noise like he’s gonna pull away, so of course Billy has to lean up a little, fighting his ribs, to kiss Steve again.

“Ahem,” Hopper clears his throat from the doorway, and Steve springs away from Billy like he’s been caught stealing. “I, uh, don’t know if Billy’s cleared for that kind of _activity_ , there, Steve.” Hopper’s blushing, and so is Steve, and Billy feels his face warm, too. Amelia walks in, looks at all their faces, and laughs out loud.

“You feeling okay there, Billy?” she asks, like she knows _exactly_ why Billy’s heart monitor went off; she’s pressing buttons on it now, to make the dinging stop. “Not doing anything too _strenuous_ , right?” Billy might _actually_ die now, thanks, and Steve looks like he’s about to slip down his chair onto the floor in a puddle of embarrassed goo, too. Hopper’s laughing out loud now, shaking so hard with it he slops a little coffee on the floor. 

Amelia rolls her eyes, laughing along with Hopper. She’s _the worst_ , Billy thinks, and from the look in Steve’s eyes, he thinks so too. 

“I’ll make sure to include _those instructions_ with the rest of your discharge paperwork for tomorrow morning,” she adds, and Hopper’s howling with laughter now, leaning against the wall for support. “I’m about to head out, it’s nearly shift change, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning to get you discharged. Don’t get up to any more funny business tonight, okay? They’re about to kick you two out, visiting hours were supposed to be over at six, but if you hurry, Steve, you can probably get him fed before they realize you’re still in here.” She makes a few more notes on his chart and bustles out of the room. Steve helps him chug the broth, feeds him the gross Jello, and it makes a pleased _thing_ rise in Billy’s stomach, Steve taking care of him this way. 

“You owe me Wendy’s on the way home, asshole,” Billy sighs after he swallows a chunk of Jello. “I want a fucking _Frosty_ , shit, and a hamburger the size of your head. Too bad you guys don’t have In’N’Out around here.”

“Wendy’s is _gross_ ,” Steve complains, “But I guess I can do that, you big lug.” 

“I thought you were gonna call me _Darry_ ,” Billy teases, and Steve blushes again. 

“Not if you’re gonna be an _asshole_ , Darry wasn’t an asshole,” Steve says, and Billy laughs, ignoring the flare of pain in his ribs. 

“Are you kidding, Steve? Darry was, like, half the reason Ponyboy ran away, did we read the same book?” They’re still arguing about _The Outsiders_ when the night nurse comes in to kick Steve and Hopper out for the night. 

The next morning, they tell him they’re gonna discharge him at eight, but they don’t actually leave the hospital until, like, _eleven_. It sucks, and Amelia makes sure to go over the _Physical Exertion_ part of Billy’s discharge paperwork in excruciating detail. She winks at Billy and Steve as she leaves, though, makes Billy promise not to get kidnapped or anything _else_ stupid for at least three months. Billy’s head still aches like a motherfucker, and so does his arm, but they’ve officially given him the all clear to take Tylenol, now that they aren't so worried about his brain springing a leak or something.

Hopper takes them back to Patti’s apartment so Billy can say goodbye to Kali and Axel and the new girls, can promise to teach Ten to drive when she comes to visit over the summer. Patti and Steve have twin looks of horror on their faces at the idea, but nobody tries to stop them. Patti passes Steve a sealed envelope to put in his bag, _William Hargrove_ typed on the front, and Billy has to use his two least fucked-up fingers to pinch Steve before he can ask Billy what’s in the envelope. 

“Ow, fuck, _okay_ ,” Steve bitches, and Kali laughs. “Be nice, B.” 

“I’m _never_ nice,” Billy leers, and Axel chokes on the water he’s drinking. 

“Get out of my hair, you hoodlums,” Patti sighs, pushing them out the door. “Y’all had better come see me, on your spring break or whenever.” 

“Okay, Steve, here are Billy’s keys,” Hopper delegates once they’re in the car, “Drive safe, _please._ People are gonna be _assholes_ , since tomorrow’s Christmas and everybody and their fucking _mother_ waited to go home.” 

“So I _can’t_ see how fast the Cammy can go?” Steve asks all innocent, cracks up when Hopper rolls his eyes. Steve fucks around with the stereo, when they get into the Camaro, and finds Kali’s mixtape. 

“She sent you one, too?” Steve asks. “Oh, that’s funny, mine said Kali’s Big _Bisexual_ Mixtape. Does that mean you’re--?” Billy pretends to be asleep, and by the time they’re on the highway for ten minutes, Hopper trailing behind them like he’s even got jurisdiction to pull them over in Illinois, Billy’s asleep for real, left hand in its cast and splints draped over Steve’s hand on the gearshift. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, kids!! Steve and Billy _almost_ had a real adult human conversation about their feelings, everybody's okay, and it's about to be a holly jolly christmas, which for the record I _didn't_ want to write when I conceptualized this fic, BUT I'm about to make next chapter the holliest, jolliest christmas of all time. 
> 
> Fun Notes:
> 
>   * The title of this chapter is from the ICONIC Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers duet _Islands in the Stream_. Also, there's a new mixtape to look forward to next week, HELL YEAH, get excited. 
>   * Please nobody think about concussion protocol At ALL re: Billy's sleep and/or their use of painkillers. It's absolutely incorrect, even for the eighties, but there was a little bit more leeway then than there is now, plus since his MRI was okay (presumably) and he'd already been sleeping in the close-to-24-hours since his initial head injury, there wasn't a whole lot they could've done to fuck him up any worse re: pain meds and sleep, tbh.
>   * Billy fucked up on his pain meds is exactly and directly me, down to the crying about _anything_ and the dripping mouth full of soup. I'm a _mess_ on opiates.
>   * Absurd shit I googled for this chapter: "when did wendy's start" "tbi and morphine" "sex with concussion"
> 

> 
> **In the next installment, up sometime mid-next-week unless I end up having to work Tuesday _and_ Wednesday open to close at the bar: it's CHRISTMAS! Gifts are exchanged, there's a lot of Gay Shit (tm) and another mixtape is exchanged, _hell yeah!!_**


	15. i don't mind you hanging out (and talking in your sleep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which the "sharing a bed" tag becomes relevant again, Steve's parents come home, and there's a worrisome amount of fluff._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babies!!!! Sorry about this brutally long wait, y'all are the real MVPs. See u at the end of the chapter for more serious notes!!

Billy sleeps the whole way home, just about, which gives Steve plenty of time to think. He’s still pretty fucking exhausted by losing sleep over Billy two nights ago, then existing only in the hospital for a couple days; Nancy and Jonathan had tried to drag him back to Patti’s at one point, but he’d thrown such a fit _a nurse_ had had to intervene. Steve really hasn’t slept much, not since Sunday when he slept like a fucking _baby_ , wrapped up in Billy’s scent and fighting off his massive hangover.

He’s stolen a few decent naps, since Billy’s been conscious and mostly okay, but he’s still _exhausted_. It’s clear Billy’s exhausted too, from the way he drops off to sleep as soon as they hit the highway, and Steve gets distracted from the road a few times, glancing over at Billy’s face, slack with sleep, drooling a little in a way Steve’s horrified to realize he thinks is, like, _cute_. Steve’s got the country station on the whole way home, and they’re playing a bunch of sappy love songs, which pretty accurately captures how Steve’s been feeling since Billy woke up proper, smiled at Steve and said he wants to kiss Steve again. 

_Fallin’ in love in the middle of the night, just moving slow,_ the Nitty Gritty Band sings out of the radio, and Steve hums along, smiling to himself. Hearing Billy all fucked up on pain meds, whining about wanting Steve’s sweater had made Steve want to _die,_ a little, but with happiness, the kind of joy that squeezes your heart like a vice, makes it hard to breathe. Steve’s just, like, _ecstatic_ ; not even the thought of his parents coming home to pretend they’re all one big happy family can piss him off, not while he’s speeding down the highway, Billy dozing in the passenger seat. It’d be better if Billy wasn’t so _fucked up_ , if kissing him didn’t taste like the blood from his split lip, but Steve’ll take what he can get, especially after having to contemplate what Hawkins and, like, his life would be like without Billy there. 

Billy wakes up when they have to stop for gas, about thirty minutes from the Hawkins exit. Steve’s still got almost half a tank, but Hopper’s truck guzzles gas, and Steve wants a lecture about getting separated about as much as he wants a hole in the head. Hopper’s clearly all fucked up about this stuff too, if the way he’s _terrified_ to let Billy be _anywhere_ without multiple people to be there with him is any indication. Steve doesn’t blame him, especially not after the conversation they had had at Billy’s bedside last night where Hopper basically just _lost his mind_ , worrying about Billy and El and how the _hell_ he was supposed to raise two teenagers who’re both, like, emotionally volatile, especially when the government is after one of them and will apparently just, like, _kidnap the other one_ to get to the one they want. 

So Hopper’s dealing with all that shit, emotionally, plus it’s almost Christmas and everybody in town knows that Hopper’s kid had gotten really sick for the last time right around Christmas, that she hadn’t lasted until New Year’s. Steve’s already called Joyce to warn her that Hopper’s not great at dealing with all the _emotions_ he’s having right now, and she’s all prepared for their joint Christmas situation to be, like, a little bit of a shitshow. 

Steve gets a giant to-go coffee at the gas station, and when he throws himself back into the warmth of the car, shuts the door a little too hard, Billy’s already awake. Hopper’s done fueling up, too, so Steve lets Billy acclimate to the watery winter sunshine as they pull back onto the highway before he starts talking. 

“Where are we?” Billy asks, slowly blinking his eyes open. Steve knows from experience how _shitty_ the sun is when you’ve got a concussion, so he passes over the pair of sunglasses he knows Billy keeps in his center console. Billy sighs all relieved, and a warmth glazes over Steve’s stomach, soothing the anxiety he’s suddenly feeling about having to actually _talk to Billy about everything_ , now that he’s awake and they’re actually alone. 

“Can we put on something else?” Billy whines, waving his hand at the radio all dramatic like he can’t just press a button and change the music himself. Steve’s a fucking _sucker_ , though, because he just rifles around in Billy’s center console, flicks a glance at the title of the tape he’s holding. 

“How does, uh, Fleetwood Mac sound?” Steve asks, already pressing the eject button on the stereo. 

“Mmm,” Billy hums, and it sounds mostly positive. “Oh, shoot, be careful with the tape in the player, it’s, uh, my mom’s.” Steve can see the subtle flush in Billy’s skin without looking too hard, but he ignores it, just switches out the tapes carefully, puts the Beach Boys tape gently into the center console. 

_Monday morning, you sure look fine,_ Lindsey Buckingham sings, and Steve taps along on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what he’s gonna say to Billy. Thankfully, Billy says something first. 

“So, uh,” Billy starts off, a little awkward in a way he usually isn’t, “Where’re you planning on taking me, for this date we’re going on?”

“Well, depends on when you wanna go,” Steve answers, cautiously, He doesn’t wanna freak Billy out with the stupid, sappy shit he wants to say, but he can’t think of any, like, _normal human dates_ , right this second. “If you wanna put me off till spring, we can go stargazing.” It’s a stupid thing to say, he knows as soon as he starts fucking talking, but Billy doesn’t make fun of him like the girls he’s been with have, just cracks up a little bit, rolls his eyes as much as he can with what Steve assumes must be a splitting headache. 

“And if I wanna go on a date with my--uh, _with you_ like, the day after Christmas or something?” Billy asks, “What are we gonna do then?”

“Well, if you weren’t quite so fucked up I’d take you ice skating, show you my epic hockey skills,” Steve jokes, “But since you’re not exactly cleared for contact sports, I guess I’ll just have to take you to a movie, get you dinner after at the diner.” 

“Only if we sit in the back row and make out,” Billy counters, and Steve can’t argue with that. 

“Alright,” he agrees, and Billy beams at him, bottom lip still a little swollen. “But nothing else until you’re cleared for _strenuous activity_ like the nurse said this morning, okay? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’re the worst,” Billy bitches, and Steve laughs, takes his eyes off the road long enough to smile back at Billy. 

“So are we--like, are we, uh, official?” Steve says, winces at how stupid he sounds, “I just--I know I sound like a fucking girl about it, but, uh, Nancy’s gonna ask.” It sounds like a lie even to his own ears, but Billy just smiles, a quiet thing, like he’s _pleased_ , and Steve realizes just how quickly Billy’s become the person who could break his heart at any second, if he really wanted. 

“Yeah, you want my jacket or somethin’?” Billy answers like he’s some cool guy, but the smile in his voice is unmistakable. “I guess it ain’t too much of a hardship, _princess._ ” Steve’s stomach flips again at the nickname, at the smirk on Billy’s face, at just how bad he wants Billy to be cleared for strenuous activity. 

“Well, uh, good,” Steve says, blushing, and changes the subject to Christmas, to what all Joyce is making for the Hopper-Hargrove-Byers Christmas dinner tomorrow night and what kind of horrible presents the kids are sure to have gotten them, given the $5 price limit Steve had set. (Steve’s pretty sure everyone’s gonna go over the limit with each other, given the twenty dollar bills he’d slipped into all of the kids’ backpacks last week to make sure everyone could afford presents, but the _idea_ is nice.)

They’re almost to the cabin, and Billy’s singing along with the radio a little off-key but smooth and warm, _when the loving starts and the lights go down and there’s not another living soul around,_ when Steve realizes there’s about to be a _huge_ logistical issue. He’s thinking about the cabin as a distraction from thinking about what might happen when they’re alone with the lights off, but when he imagines the two of them curled up in the loft that he remembers that Billy’s _absolutely not allowed_ to (a) use his fucked up hands to climb anything or (b) sleep that far above the ground, _oh god what if he falls out of bed?_

“Uh, Billy, how attached are you to sleeping at the cabin?” Steve asks, and Billy looks over at him, licks his lips with a tongue that should be criminal even though the bags under his eyes are so dark it’s hard to tell where the black eyes stop and the shadows from lack of sleep start. Steve can’t decide if he wants to roll around with Billy or tuck him in all careful like a burrito, like Hopper does to El. 

“Why, you offering your bed?” Billy asks, waggling his eyebrows outrageously, then wincing at the pain.

“Ye--no--I mean, you can’t exactly climb up to the loft, can you, huh?” Steve says defensively, because it’s a _good fucking point, okay?_

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Billy swears, realizing. 

“I mean, we’ve got a mother-in-law suite downstairs at the house, you wouldn’t even have to go upstairs if you didn’t wanna,” Steve offers, too nervous to look over at him. The tension between them is _electric_ ; Steve feels like he’d shock himself if he touched Billy right now, like they’re shuffling around a carpet in socks trying to build up static electricity. 

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Billy says finally, “you’re a _much_ prettier nursemaid than Hopper. I don’t wanna miss Christmas over here, though, _fuck,_ El would lose her shit.”

“I’ll bring you over Christmas morning, pick you up at the Byers’ whenever.”

“Won’t you have to deal with your parents, though? I don’t wanna fuck up your Christmas, hauling me around.” Billy seems a little off-kilter, tapping his mostly-good pointer finger against the door in time with _Landslide_. “It’s fine, I’ll just sleep on the couch or something.”

“Listen, having a buffer there to help me deal with my fucked-up parents is honestly best-case scenario,” Steve says, probably saying too much. “They don’t, like, _hurt me_ or anything, it’s just that my mom’s kinda an alcoholic and my dad’s an asshole about me going to school and getting a business degree and doing, like, _exactly_ what he did.”

“Well, if it’s helping get your ‘rents off your back,” Billy sighs, like it’s some _hardship_ , and Steve glows bright with affection for him. 

Hopper clearly hasn’t thought about the logistics either, but when Billy and Steve explain their plan, he seems fine enough with it. 

“This way, you two can take the girls up to Fort Wayne to do their Christmas shopping tomorrow,” Hopper shrugs, and Billy sighs all dramatic. 

“I’m _dying_ , I got _kidnapped_ like three days ago and you’re _still_ making me take the hellcats to the mall the day before Christmas Eve?” he moans, and Steve can tell he’s holding back, can tell his head’s still killing him. 

“You’re the one who told Max you’d take her,” Hopper says back while Steve’s crawling up to the loft. 

“I’m not gonna leave your dumb ass there with the girls, oh my god, you _drama queen_ ,” Steve shouts down, “what clothes do you want, you asshole?”

Billy talks him through some extremely unnecessary, incredibly specific sartorial choices, makes Steve get his hair stuff which means Steve’s gonna have to help him do his hair later, _Jesus_ Billy’s a fucking peacock sometimes. 

“You need a decent coat,” Hopper declares as they’re getting ready to leave, and Steve feels Billy stiffen up, sees his shoulders rise. “Just-- _jesus fuck,_ kid, just take the fucking coat, I ain’t returning it now. It’s your Christmas gift, and if you’re gonna be like that about it, I can make it your birthday gift, too.”

“My parents’ll be impressed by it,” Steve says, not sure if he’s gonna help or hurt the situation, but Billy just laughs, nods at Hopper like _pass it over._ His cast doesn’t fit in the sleeve, so Steve just drapes the shoulder of the coat around Billy’s upper arm. Billy looks _handsome_ , the navy wool making his eyes blaze bluer than they already are; it’s unfair, Steve thinks briefly, overwhelmed by thoughts of things they won’t be able to do until Billy’s back to normal. He bites his tongue, thinks about Jagr’s stats for a second until he can compose himself. 

“Well, let’s go,” Steve says, and his voice is a little bit higher than he would really like for it to be; the sharp look Billy turns on him says he knows _exactly_ what Steve’s been thinking about, and the smirk that grows on his mouth proves it, taunts Steve a little bit. Billy licks his lips, and suddenly Steve feels like it’s approximately a hundred thousand degrees in the cabin. 

“ _Take me home_ then, Steve,” Billy answers lasciviously, and Steve blushes dark, rolls his eyes and leads Billy out to the car, pleased as punch. 

“Put on some Van Halen,” Billy demands when they get going, and Steve thinks if he rolls his eyes any harder, they’ll pop out. He does though, sighing about it the whole time. The rolling drums blare out of the speakers and Billy hums along to _Hot for Teacher_ , shooting Steve these looks like he’s gonna _do something about it_. Steve’s figured out by now that Billy’s default when he’s feeling nervous or sad or, like, any emotion other than anger is to flirt aggressively, like Steve won’t notice the gooey look in Billy’s eyes or the sadness rolling off him in waves or whatever it is he’s feeling at any given time. 

“So, uh, my parents are gonna be there when we get home,” Steve starts, “They’re--well, my mom’s nice enough. She’ll just worry over you all dramatic, make me wait in you hand and foot.”

“I guess you should learn how to care for _the little people,_ princess,” Billy teases, and Steve ignores him. 

“My dad’ll ask you a bunch of stupid fucking questions about where you wanna go to college and what you’re gonna do when you’re an adult and probably rub my face in it, but he’s pretty easy to ignore, honestly. Just nod along with him at meals, the rest of the time he’ll be in his office doing work stuff anyways.” Billy sucks his teeth, nods slowly. 

“You think I could knock him out if he’s an asshole to you? With my hand all fucked up, I mean, I’m sure I could kick his ass on a regular day.” Billy says it like it’s not some big deal, like he’s not offering to kick Steve’s dad’s ass if he, like, _hurts Steve’s feelings_ or some shit, and Steve’s really gonna have to get a handle on his feelings for the, like, four days his parents are in town, shit. 

“No, you absolutely cannot beat my dad up,” Steve starts to lecture automatically, like he’s talking to Dustin about some stupid shit or something, “I’d be really mad if we have to push your recovery time back any farther, for one thing.” Billy’s face colors a little at the implication, and he smiles over at Steve like _I’m already planning for the day I get cleared._ Having the full force of Billy’s attention on him is like looking at the sun a little; it burns, but it’s awe-inspiring. 

His Beemer’s parked in the driveway next to his parents’ sports car, the one his mom always bitches about trying to fit luggage in, as if she’s ever done it herself anyways. Steve parks the Cammy behind his car, starts grabbing bags and pillows and Billy’s dopp kit and, finally, helps Billy lever himself out of the car. 

He squares his shoulders under the weight of his parents’ expectations, rolls his neck a little to try to get out some of the tension. It’s always weird, to see his parents again after such a long stretch of time; they haven’t been home since September, and Steve really hasn’t missed them much, if he’s honest. He loves his mom, misses her like _breathing_ sometimes, but she’s been a package deal with his dad since Steve was about thirteen, and his dad--well, it’s not worth it to Steve, most of the time. He’d rather be alone, usually. 

“I’m right here,” Billy says, ghosting splinted fingers across the back of Steve’s neck. “I’ll distract them long enough for you to get away, if they’re bodysnatchers or something.” Steve smiles at him, weak with nerves, and leads them into the house. 

“Ma? I’m home!” Steve yells, and when he hears his mother twittering something he can’t understand at him from the kitchen, “I brought a friend to stay, like that summer Tommy broke his leg and couldn’t do the stairs at his house?” He hates the way his parents make him feel uncertain, like he’s standing on shifting sand and the world could drop out from him with one misstep. He can hear the questions in his voice, is sure Billy can hear them too. 

“Well, we’re happy to have him, of course, but won’t his family be upset about it? It _is_ Christmas, after all,” his mom asks as she comes down the hall, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She’s wearing this killer skirt-suit, looks just like she has for as long as he can remember, short and trim. He’s pretty sure she’s had some work done, given how much she loves that Dolly quote about keeping things where they’re supposed to be for as long as she has the money to do it. 

“Oh, _honey,_ ” she says despairingly when she gets a good look at Billy, “ _Baby_ , what _happened_ to you? You look like somebody chewed you up and spit you out. Come on into the kitchen, I’ll make you something hot to drink while Steve puts y’all’s bags away, _right Steve?_ ” There’s a subtle threat in her voice, the same subtle threat he hears in his grandma’s voice when she “jokes” about his mom marrying some damn yankee. 

“Oh, uh, thank you, ma’am,” Billy says, clearly surprised by the tiny tornado of activity Steve calls his mom. “I’d like that.” He’s clearly torn between flirting with Steve’s mom like he had Mrs. Wheeler and not pissing Steve off, and it’s the funniest thing Steve’s seen all day.

“Don’t call me ma’am, do I _really_ look that old?” his mom asks, scandalized, “Call me Helen, sugar. Now, really, what happened to this beautiful face’a yours, hon?” Billy acts like he’s rubbing his face to hide his smile. 

“Well, alright, Miss Helen,” he answers, and Steve’s shocked by how well Billy knows southern manners. Neil’s not southern, Steve knows that, but maybe Billy’s mom was? Whatever, his mom’s gonna keep picking at Billy’s defenses until she gets the whole ugly story out of him if Steve doesn’t intervene. 

“He got beat up by a couple’a junkies the other day, he was visiting some friends in Chicago and got jumped,” Steve cuts in, answers for Billy before he can blow their cover. “I’m gonna put him in the mother-in-law-suite, is that okay, Momma?” She nods at him all businesslike, puts a gentle hand through the crook of Billy’s elbow and leads him into the kitchen, chattering at him about how _dangerous_ big cities can be, how she’s _so glad he got away alive_. 

It’s a little bit dangerous to leave Billy alone with his mom for too long, Steve thinks as he drops off Billy’s stuff and runs his own bag upstairs. He thunders down the stairs, half to let Billy know he’s coming and half because the annoyed squawk his mom lets out has always made him laugh. 

“Well, baby,” his mom says as he comes into the kitchen, “You came just in time to help me with prep for Christmas dinner. You wanna make pie dough or help me get the green bean bundles put together?” Steve weighs his options, wobbling his head back and forth. His mom passes over a mug that smells like Christmas, cloves and cinnamon and wine. 

“Are your parents gonna be mad if you have a little mulled wine, baby?” she asks Billy, already putting a mug with a straw in it on the counter in front of where he’s perched on a barstool, grinning over at Steve like he knows a joke Steve doesn’t. “It’s festive, is all.” 

“I’ll do green bean bundles,” Steve says after he scorches his tongue on the mulled wine. “I always get the dough a little too wet.” 

“Bless you, baby, for knowing your limitations,” his mom agrees, passes a foil-lined pan to him. It stings a little, hearing her talk about his limitations, but she doesn’t mean it like that, not really. If what his dad says is anything to go by, she’s always talking about how proud she is of him when she gets drunk at company dinners. 

“What are green bean bundles?” Billy asks, the picture of polite interest as he sips up mulled wine, coughs a little at how strong it is. Steve snickers at his face, and his mom slaps at his arm gently. 

“No need to tease our guest, Stevie,” she chides him, and Billy’s got this _look_ in his eyes that says Steve’s never gonna hear the end of that particular nickname. “They’re _so good,_ you wrap green beans in bacon and put soy sauce and brown sugar on ‘em and when you bake them off, the bacon caramelizes. They’ll make you slap your momma, if I do say so myself. Stevie, baby, go put on some Dolly, you know she soothes me when I’m cooking.”

Steve puts on _Just Because I’m A Woman_ , and gets to work wrapping bacon around little handfuls of green beans. His mom sings along with Dolly under her breath, mixing ice water into the flour and butter with a biscuit cutter. 

“Why’d you put on such an old one, baby? I know you like _Dolly Dolly Dolly_ more, and your daddy likes _The Great Pretender_ , God only knows why.” His mom’s prattling on like she always does when she’s a little too sober and there’s a new person in the house. 

“This one’s got _I’ll Oilwells Love You_ ,” Steve says, just as the bouncy guitar comes in. His mom wiggles a little in excitement, starts singing along at full volume, off-key but so excited it’s easy to ignore, _I met a man in Texas, and oh he was so fine, and I said to myself, self I’m gonna make him mine._

“Mom likes to pretend she wasn’t the one with the oil wells,” Steve explains as Billy looks on, trying to hide his laugh as his mom weaves around the kitchen, holding the bowl of dough in one hand and beating the biscuit cutter against it like a tambourine. Steve doesn’t try to control it, just laughs out loud at her, all bright and dramatic in the kitchen like she’s here all the time. She glares over at him like she’s mad, but she can’t hold it for long, cracks into laughter of her own at the look on Steve’s face. 

“It ain’t _my fault_ Dolly’s the voice of my generation,” she faux-pouts, and Billy finally breaks too, laughing as hard as he can with his strapped-up ribs. 

“Now, sir,” she points to Billy with the biscuit cutter once they all calm down a little, “You never answered me about your family, won’t they miss you for Christmas?”

“I’ll be taking him over there in the mornings the next couple days, bring him back at night,” Steve answers for him when a shadow passes over Billy’s face at the question. 

“Now, Steve, I won’t bite, let your handsome friend over here answer my questions himself,” she chides him, patting the dough in the bowl together and wrapping it in plastic wrap to chill in the fridge overnight. 

“Well, uh, what Steve said was right, ma’am--excuse me, Miss Helen,” Billy says, a little awkward, “Our house has stairs, and I can’t really manage them with all the injuries, plus Steve over here’s a big ol’ worrywart about me passing out and falling down ‘em or something.” A little twang has found its way into Billy’s voice, mirroring his mom’s accent, and Steve’s _captivated_ by all the things he doesn’t know about Billy yet, all the things he’ll get to learn if he plays his cards right. 

“Oh, well, he _is_ right,” his mom exclaims, hand on her pearls. “I’d hate for you to get hurt, not when we’ve got plenty of room here and Steve and I can look after you. You ready for some more wine, sugar?” When Billy nods, she passes Steve Billy’s mug, gestures over to the crockpot full of wine and spices. Billy smiles at him all smug, like _yeah, get me a drink_ , and even though Steve’s rolling his eyes a little, he can’t help the smile on his face as he dips out more wine into both their mugs.

His mom sends them in to change for dinner, which Steve gets mad about for approximately half a second before he remembers he’s in the same jeans he’s been wearing for, like, three days and Billy’s wearing _sweats_. His dad would have a damn fit at the very idea of anybody wearing sweats at the dinner table, whether or not they’d just been beaten into a pulp.

“I’m probably okay to get into the sweatshirt,” Billy says, a little bashful note in his voice for the first time ever in his whole life, probably, “But I’ll need help getting into my pants.”

“As long as you’re not going commando, I’ll probably be able to control myself,” Steve jokes, and Billy just leers back at him.

“Well, in that case I wish I hadn’t let the nurse talk me into wearing boxers,” Billy teases, back on solid ground. They hadn’t really fucked with his thumbs, which is a minor miracle, so Billy gets his pants on with little fanfare. He waggles his eyebrows at Steve when he gets them on, and Steve’s hands are suddenly shaky, brushing against Billy’s stomach as he pulls up the zipper, pops the button closed. The wine hasn’t done much for his composure, and when Billy pushes Steve’s hand away with his cast, presses in close to kiss Steve all gentle, Steve feels like he’s gonna _explode_. Billy’s tongue should be _illegal_ , he thinks distractedly while he’s melting into Billy, bringing up one hand to Billy’s nape and pressing the other against Billy’s lower back, giving just as good as he’s getting. 

“STEVIE!” his mom yells, and he pulls back slow from Billy’s mouth, looking into Billy’s lovedrunk eyes. “SOUP’S ON, BABY!” 

“Uh, shit,” Steve says, still reluctant to take his hands off Billy, “I gotta go change. I’ll be right back, don’t go in there until I come get you unless you wanna meet my shithead dad alone.” Running up, throwing on some random sweater and a pair of khakis, and thumping back down the stairs takes maybe a minute and a half, but when he and Billy get into the formal dining room, his dad’s already seated, looking at his watch like he’s been waiting for an hour or some shit.

“Hi, dad,” Steve says, once he can dredge up the words from his suddenly-empty brain. “How was your trip?”

“Mm, fine,” his dad responds, “Although I see your manners haven’t gotten any better. Who’s your...little friend?” Steve knows _good and fucking well_ that his dad’s already gotten the whole story from his mom, but his dad’s really into setting Steve up for failure with weird little tests like this one. 

“Billy Hargrove, sir,” Billy says, walks over and puts out his casted hand. “Or, uh, excuse me, my handshake hand’s a little out of commission at the moment.” Steve’s dad looks at Billy’s hand a little unimpressed, shoots Steve a glance like _this is the kind of person you’re friends with now? Really?_

“Hi, Billy, you can call me Mr. Harrington. We’re happy to help you out any way we can,” his dad says, with a tone in his voice that says _I’m not that happy to help, actually,_ as clear as possible. 

“Nice to meet you, sir. Where’s a good place to sit?” Billy somehow doesn’t even look phased by his dad’s rudeness, which just makes Steve’s heart jump a little higher. Nancy had spilled a full bowl of soup on her lap and burst into tears at her first Harrington dinner, so the way Billy’s just standing, posture neutral and eyes low the way Steve’s dad likes, is even more impressive by comparison. 

“Oh, right there’s fine.” His dad points to the chair at his left. “Steve, you can sit across from him, but first go help your mother bring dinner in, she’s only got two hands.” 

“Yessir,” Steve mutters, goes to help his mom carry out the hashbrown casserole. 

___________

 

Seeing where Steve comes from is fucking _wild_. Given what a firecracker his mom is, short and still hot and a little bit _insane_ , Billy’s not surprised Steve manages to handle Dustin so well; Steve has to handle his mom the same way, refocusing her on one task or another about six times just while she makes dinner. She’s funny as hell, loud and lewd and constantly moving. Billy’s pretty sure he likes her, pretty sure she likes him too, if the way she makes Steve wait on him hand and foot is any indication. 

He’s a little tipsy on mulled wine and the smile that’s stuck on Steve’s face when they go to change for dinner, a little embarrassed that he can’t even put on his own fucking pants right now, but Steve’s fingers cool against the skin of his lower abdomen makes Billy want to _die_ a little, makes him want to ignore all the warnings the doctor and the nurse had given him about how sex could slow his recovery and push Steve down onto the bed, ignore Steve’s mom’s dramatic yelps about dinner being ready. 

When Steve reels him in for a kiss, takes charge in a way he hadn’t the last time they kissed outside of a hospital bed, Billy feels like his knees are water, like he’s going to fall to pieces under Steve’s sure hands. Steve pulls away when his mom yells again, blushes all pretty, and Billy has to fight not to sway back towards him, drawn in like a moth to a porch light. He runs through the street names of his old neighborhood in his head until he’s not going to embarrass himself at the dinner table while Steve’s changing. 

Steve’s hair is a mess when he comes back downstairs, and Billy stands at Steve’s shoulder, watches him fix his hair in the mirror helplessly, all the, like, _feelings_ he has about Steve making his breath stick in his throat. 

Steve’s dad _is_ kind of an asshole, but he’s the kind of asshole Billy’s dealt with basically forever, the kind of guy who wants _yes, sir_ s and as little eye contact is possible from people he thinks are below him. Billy thinks back to all the shit Neil’d tried to teach him about _respect and responsibility_ before he’d started using his fists to get Billy to listen, uses just about all of the macho, posturing bullshit he’s got in his repertoire to get through the awkward questions Steve’s dad asks. 

Once it’s clear that Mr. Harrington isn’t gonna catch Billy up with his alpha male bullshit, he starts in on Steve, asks Steve about his college applications and how his grades are, how the basketball team’s going. Steve gives a bunch of non-committal answers, and every time his dad tries to pin him down, Steve’s mom intervenes, shares some gossip about Steve’s cousins or some honestly _hysterical_ anecdote about somebody’s dog destroying the giant, fancy Christmas tree at the hotel they’d been staying at in New York by trying to climb up it and attack the angel on top. 

“After dinner, you boys’ll have to decorate the tree,” Steve’s mom says as they’re all sitting quietly, picking at the remains of dinner on their plates sleepily. “Usually we come home early enough that Steve and I can go pick out a tree from the tree farm, but this year I just had our housekeeper pick one out.” 

“Like, the _real one?_ ” Steve asks, clearly a little surprised, “I thought you were gonna have it decorated professionally, like we usually do.” _Professional tree decorating?_ Billy cannot believe rich people spend their money on shit like that. 

“No, nowhere could do it on such short notice, so you’ll just have to do your best,” she smiles at both of them. “Although, it’ll probably be hard for Billy here to help much, huh?”

“You sure you can handle it, kid?” Mr. Harrington asks from behind the paper he’s reading. “It’s a big job, and it has to be done _right,_ you understand?” He talks to Steve like he’s some stupid fucking _kid_ , like Steve didn’t just _lead a fucking rescue mission to literally save Billy’s life_ and he can’t handle fucking decorating a goddamn Christmas tree. Billy must have some fucking look on his face, because Steve kicks him sharply under the table, looks back at his dad all serene. 

“I can, and if I can’t, I’m sure Billy can supervise me, thanks.” Steve’s voice isn’t cold, isn’t cutting like Billy wants it to be, but, like, Billy doesn’t have to live in this house with Steve’s dad forever, not like Steve does. He gets it, too, gets letting shit like this go so a bigger fight doesn’t break out. 

“We can help clear the table, go do the dishes,” Billy says without thinking. Steve’s dad looks down at Billy’s hands pointedly, looks him in the eye with a half-smirk on his face, a look that says _oh really?_ Just to spite him, even though he knows it’s gonna fuck his hands up later, Billy starts stacking salad bowls on the flat palm of his cast, gathers up the silverware. Steve helps, grabs the big plates and the dirty cloth napkins and follows Billy into the kitchen. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve sighs as he help Billy get the salad bowls out of his hand without breaking them, “You’re gonna mess your hands up.” 

“It was either that or start throwing shit at him, Steve,” Billy answers, a little gruffer than he means to. It just _pisses him off,_ Steve’s dad acting like Steve’s some fucking imbecile when he’s fucking _not._

“You know he’s an asshole, right? You’re smart and brave and worth about a million of him.” Billy doesn’t exactly mean to say that much, to show his hand that clearly, but Steve seems pleased, this quiet little smile on his face as he rinses off the dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher. “Your dad must be the dragon I’ve gotta slay to deserve you, huh, _princess?_ ” he adds, because apparently Billy’s physically incapable of just, like, saying a nice thing and leaving it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” Steve laughs him off, rolls his eyes. “Good luck with that.” He pours them both mugs of wine, tips his head towards the den. “Let’s go decorate this fucking tree, _jesus._ ”

“I, uh, I’ve got some weed in the glovebox of the Camaro, if you wanna do that first,” Billy offers, trying desperately to put the spark back in Steve’s eyes, the one that had disappeared when his dad had introduced himself to Billy. 

“Let’s do this first,” Steve sighs, sounding forlorn. “There’s nothing I wanna do more--” Billy leers at him, as seductively as he can with his head pounding and his nerves on edge. “Okay, well, there are _some things_ I wanna do more, but if the tree doesn’t look fancy enough, it’s all my dad’s gonna talk about for the next, like, _three months._ We can sneak out and smoke afterwards.”

There’s all kinds of fancy, like, garlands and shit, and Steve keeps worrying out loud about _balance_ and _form_ and Billy feels lost. Mrs. Harrington--uh, Miss Helen--comes in when Steve’s bitching about the tinsel not laying right, puts on some record Billy’s never heard before that makes his blood sing. 

“What is this?” Billy asks as the woman yowls _jambalaya, crawfish pie and file gumbo_ like a fucking cat in heat or something; it’s _wild_. “She sounds _amazing_.”

“Its Brenda Lee, baby. You never heard _Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree?_ ” Helen asks, laughing a little. “She’s a little hellcat, she was only _fifteen_ when she recorded this album. Wild, ain’t it?”

“That’s her, too? She sounds so _mad_ now, though,” Billy says, which sounds stupid because all the songs they’ve heard so far are, like, love songs and shit, but she’s got the same kind of mad in her voice that Joan Jett has. The look on Helen’s face seems like she knows exactly what Billy’s talking about, though. 

“Yeah, honey, she’s got that _growl_ in her, don’t she? She’s lost a little of it, now, gone more true to the Nashville thing, but her early stuff is amazing.” She reaches out a hand to him, and makes him dance with her, leading him aggressively with the hand on his shoulder. Her breath is sweet with wine, and she’s clearly a little more drunk than she thinks she is. Steve looks fit to burst, as Billy’s mom used to say, smile wide on his face as he watches the two of them sway around the den.

“Momma, you think this looks good? The tree’s a little crooked, so I had to try to balance it out with the ornaments.” Steve seems a little tipsy from the wine, but not unhappy, not like he was talking to his dad. 

“Hmmmm,” his mom hums appraisingly, closing one eye and cocking her head at the tree. She takes a couple steps back to get the full effect, nearly falls into the sunken floor. “Yeah, baby, it looks lovely, thank you. I’m gonna go catch up on _Dynasty_ upstairs, do whatever y’all want down here so long as you don’t mess with the presents or set the place on fire.” She disappears back into the kitchen, and there’s the clink of what Billy would bet is a wine glass against the bottle. 

“She’s gonna go get drunk upstairs, is what she means,” Steve says under his breath, a little of the happiness fading from his eyes. 

“C’mon, sugar, let’s go get stoned in my car, let me be a bad influence like your dad thinks I am,” Billy tries as a distraction tactic, reaching out his hand to Steve, and Steve looks up at him, the smile on his face only a little faked. “And maybe we can make out a little, after?” Steve’s smile widens, and he carefully grabs Billy’s hand, leads him out the front door. 

Steve has to hold the joint to Billy’s mouth, given that his fingers all don’t really want to work. Eventually, Billy just takes the extra step out of the equation and leans over the center console, ignoring his protesting ribs, to kiss the smoke out of Steve’s mouth whenever he takes a hit. Billy adds _car sex after shotgunning weed_ to the list of things he’s going to do with Steve, like, _the minute_ he gets cleared to, but with his ribs screaming at him and most of the joint gone, he figures it can wait for now. 

“C’mon, come croodle me,” he asks Steve, and Steve looks over at him all surprised, bursts into stoned giggles. 

“ _Croodle?_ ” he gasps, when he can breathe again, and Billy scowls at him. 

“It’s what my mom called it,” Billy grumps, and Steve sobers up a little, still smiling over at him like an idiot. 

“Well, then, let’s go croodle,” Steve says, and they do. 

 

Billy wakes up the next morning early, Steve next to him still, drooling on Billy’s shoulder like some kind of _animal_. His head hurts like a _motherfucker_ , and he’s pretty sure he’s gonna--

He stands up, runs to the en-suite bathroom, pukes into the toilet bowl. His ribs are furious with him, breathing fucking _hurts_ , and he feels like his _eyes_ are bleeding from the pressure. Steve pads into the bathroom rubbing his eyes, hair a mess, but when he sees Billy on his knees, face hidden in the porcelain, he drops down, hovers a hand over Billy’s shoulder blade as a warning before he touches Billy, fingertips cool.

“Oh, _shit,_ baby, I shouldn’t’ve let you drink last night, I totally fucking forgot, goddamn it,” Steve murmurs, smoothing circles into Billy’s back. “I’ll go get you some tylenol when you’re done.” He reaches his other hand over to the sink, manages to get it wet, and wipes Billy’s brow, cooing nonsense. 

Billy pukes a few more times, and his head is fucking _pounding_ , but when he’s finally done, Steve puts a wet cloth on the back of his neck, leaves the room and comes back with a few painkillers, which Billy swallows dry. Steve holds a glass of water for him to drink, then makes him get back in bed, closes the curtains and puts the bathroom trashcan next to Billy’s side of the bed. 

“It’s just like the other night, but you didn’t do this to yourself, huh, baby?” Steve says, patting Billy’s hip. “Lemme go get the phone, I guess I’ll have to go take the girls shopping by myself.”

“Nnnn,” Billy grunts negatively, as if to say _please don’t leave me_ and _I can go with you_ and _Max might kill you if you don’t let her see me_ all at once. Steve brushes the hair back from Billy’s forehead, face half-shadowed by the curtains and the early morning. 

“B, you can’t even _move_ like this, you need to let your body and your brain rest. If you try to push it now, you might not be okay tomorrow or Friday for real Christmas shit, and if it’s Max you’re worried about, I can go pick her up early on Saturday and she can hang out with us alone for a few hours before we go to the big Party thing.” Steve’s so _good_ to Billy, so _smart_ and _kind_ , he thinks muzzily, and grunts something a little more affirmative in Steve’s direction. 

“Okay, I’ll be back in a little bit, lemme go grab my walkie talkie and a change of clothes.” Billy waves one hand as best he can in Steve’s direction, and he’s almost asleep again, nausea knotted in his stomach, when Steve slides back into the bed, walkie-talkie clutched in one hand. Billy curls up around him, throws an arm around his waist, and fights back the nausea and pain long enough to fall asleep. 

 

When he wakes up again, Steve’s sitting up in bed, talking low to somebody over the walkie-talkie, the fingers of his free hand tracing some unintelligible pattern across Billy’s ribs. Billy shivers a little in pleasure, butts his head against Steve’s hip and closes his eyes again, trying to focus on what Steve’s saying. 

“I _know_ it’s a bummer, Max,” Steve whispers, winds his hand through Billy’s curls and pets gently. “But Billy’s having a hard morning, and we have to give him time to rest if we want him back to his normal, menacing self. I’ll pick El up, we can make a whole day of it, mkay?”

“Fine,” Max huffs after a crackly minute, clearly not super jazzed about it. The hackles of his heart warm, or whatever; Billy couldn’t’ve _paid her_ to hang out with him three months ago, and now it’s almost like before she opened her big mouth and everything went to shit. He paws at Steve’s hand, and Steve figures out with very little struggle that Billy wants to say something, presses the talk button down. 

“Hi, Mad Max,” he rasps, his throat sore from puking earlier. “Sorry, kid, I feel like somebody hit me over the head with a frying pan. Be nice to Steve, please.” She groans at him like she’s annoyed, but he can tell she’s happy to hear him. He feels compelled to add, “And act like you’ve been to town before, weirdo, it’s gonna be a fuckin’ _nightmare_ at the mall today.” 

“I will, I guess,” she grumps, “But Steve said I can come over before our Christmas party, so you’d better be excited to see me then, I’m _very ready_ for my Christmas presents from you.”

“Who says I even _bought you_ Christmas presents?” he teases half-heartedly, and Steve laughs a little at her scoff of horror and disbelief. “Yeah, _okay,_ brat, whatever. Love you, Mad Max.” He burrows back into the warmth of his pillow and Steve’s body, hears her say, real tentative and quiet, _love you back._

“I’ll be over around nine-forty-five, Max, I gotta go pick up El first,” Steve says, voice warm and happy. He signs off, turns the radio volume down, and drapes himself over Billy, careful with Billy’s ribs. He presses kisses to the nape of Billy’s neck and bites down gently on the fan of Billy’s trapezius, smiles against Billy’s skin when Billy wiggles back against him. 

“Okay, B, I gotta go get dressed. You want some toast for breakfast?” he asks, still peppering kisses across Billy’s skin even as he pulls away a little. 

“I guess,” he grumbles; he wants to pull Steve back into bed, to roll around and sleep the whole day away in the golden bubble of this bedroom. Embarrassingly, he whines a little when Steve sits up, squirming into the warm spot Steve’s left behind. Steve scratches at Billy’s scalp a little and pulls the blanket up tight around Billy’s neck, leans down to kiss Billy’s forehead. 

“I’ll bring it to you in bed, you spoiled layabed,” he murmurs, laughs at the grumpy noise Billy bites out. “My mom’ll take care of you while I’m gone, just make sure she doesn’t give you a hot toddy instead of regular tea or you’ll be miserable on Christmas Eve too, sugar.” 

Billy makes an affirmative noise, drifts until Steve brings him a fancy little breakfast tray, toast and a banana and a little pot of hot, sweet tea with a matching teacup and saucer. Steve can probably see Billy fighting the urge to say something snarky about how much effort he’s gone to, because he rolls his eyes, smiles all shy at him. 

“My mom made the tray,” he says, real bashful, “I woulda just brought you a to-go mug and a plate of dry toast, _asshole._ ” His voice is fond and his sweater looks _so soft_ and Billy wants to have Steve smiling at him like this forever.

“Oh, hey, the kids’ gifts are behind my record crates in my loft,” Billy remembers, “Will you grab ‘em when you pick up El? Don’t peek, either, I haven’t wrapped them.” 

“You want me to pick up some gift bags and tissue paper, then, since you almost _certainly_ aren’t gonna be any good at wrapping gifts with your hands like that?” Steve offers, eyes bright with suppressed laughter. 

“Yes please,” Billy says all prissy, prissier than he’s probably got a right to be as he tries to pour himself a cup of tea without splashing it all over the bed.

“Okay, your majesty,” Steve laughs. “I’ll bring ‘em.”

 

Steve’s mom peeks in on him periodically while Steve’s gone, stuffing him full of the less-pretty baked goods and extra hors d'oeuvres she’s making for Christmas dinner. She offers to bring him a book, but even the idea of reading right now makes his head throb. Instead, she turns the radio on to one of the stations that’s playing Christmas music, really low, and Billy drifts in and out of naps, spends the time between staring at the popcorn ceiling and thinking about Steve and Hopper and Max and El, all the people who make him happy. He even dredges up some happy feelings about the rest of the fucking brats. He gets up the nerve to check the test results Patti had shoved in his bag before they left Chicago; the tension in his chest that unwinds when he sees _NEGATIVE_ in all caps at the bottom of the paper is kind of surprising, but now he doesn't have to worry about hurting Steve or anything, thank _god_

Having a concussion is fucking _boring_ ; it’s definitely not his first concussion, but he always manages to forget how _monotonous_ it is when you can’t even think too hard. He's getting to the point where even _sleeping_ is fucking annoying, but right about then, Steve comes home, flushed with cold and looking tired but happy with his arms full of bags. 

“Hi, shug,” he greets Billy, comes over to press his cold fingers into the warmest part of Billy’s neck like an _asshole._ “I brought your presents from the cabin, I had to lock them in the trunk to keep Max from peeking, that little _shithead._ ”

“‘M not surprised,” Billy grunts back at him, bites at Steve’s forearm in retaliation for his _horrible_ cold fingers. Steve jerks his hands away, laughs. 

“I got you an extra present, too, so you have something to open on Christmas Eve from me,” Steve adds, fake-casual note in his voice. 

“Well, thanks, princess. I’ll have to get you something extra-special once I’m cleared to shop again,” Billy teases, warmth fizzing in his stomach at the idea of Steve shopping with him in mind. “How was shopping with the Furies?” 

“ _Oh my god,_ ” Steve complains, flopping down on the bed next to Billy. “On the one hand, Max fights foot traffic like a New Yorker, so we made it through stores really fast, but she’s also a nightmare at actually _picking stuff,_ it got to the point where even _El_ was hurrying her along.” Billy laughs, puts an arm out for Steve to cuddle up to him. 

“Yeah, she’s not known for her efficiency that way, I shoulda warned you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Your mom took very good care of me, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to eat again.” 

“She’s Southern, that doesn’t surprise me,” Steve says drily, kissing Billy on the mouth. His nose is still a little cold where it bumps against Billy’s, and Billy’s just so fucking _happy,_ croodled up with Steve while Elvis moans _I’ll be so blue just thinkin’ about you_ from the radio. 

“I’m gonna drop you off at Hopper’s around nine tomorrow,” Steve tells him, “for Christmas Eve stuff. I guess you’re all gonna be at the Byers’ Christmas day, but for tomorrow your only job is to hang out at the cabin and tell Hopper how to make all the food you guys’re supposed to be bringing. He’s freaking out about the stuffing, Will wants the kind you made for Thanksgiving and Hopper has _no idea_ what the hell he’s doing.”

“Mmm, sounds good,” Billy says, and pulls Steve back in for a kiss. They kiss for a while, until Steve’s mom calls them in for dinner, and Billy’s pretty sure he would kiss Steve _forever_ if he could. The dull ache of not getting off for a few days isn’t exactly ideal, but it’s not like he can do anything about it anyway, with his hands all fucked up and his boyfriend refusing to help him out. They eat leftovers for dinner, which Steve’s dad complains about _endlessly_ for no good goddamn reason, and Miss Helen makes them all sit on the couch with her and watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ while she drinks her way through a bottle and a half of wine. 

“Do you think Max’d wear a little deer horn like that, if we made her one?” Billy whispers in Steve’s ear, and Steve dissolves into giggles; his dad glares over at them, but Steve ignores him, leans into Billy to whisper back instead. 

“My mom keeps our empty paper towel rolls to recycle, I bet we could make one,” he murmurs, his breath warm on Billy’s neck. “I’ll go get some once the movie’s over.” 

Curled up on the couch, Steve’s thigh a line of heat against his own, Billy thinks he gets why people like Christmas. Yeah, Steve’s dad is being a dick and his mom’s well on her way to getting blackout, but Billy’s got a full belly and a blanket to curl up under and Steve beside him and the Whos are singing _da-who-doray_ and holding hands and, as fucking cheesy as it sounds, Billy feels like his heart’s grown three sizes too. (They make _the best_ fake horn for Max to wear at the Christmas party, and Steve sleeps wrapped around him again. It’s wonderful.)

 

“Merry Christmas Eve, B,” Steve murmurs in his ear, drops a kiss onto Billy’s temple as he rolls out of bed. Billy makes a grumpy, half-awake noise at him, and Steve clucks his tongue back. “I’m just getting your little Christmas gift, chill, drama queen.”

He comes back with a teeny little wrapped present and drops it on Billy’s lap; Billy looks at him like _what the fuck am I gonna open this with_ and Steve blushes, rips the paper off for him. It’s a cassette tape, Steve’s handwriting cramped on the label where it reads _for B, Merry Christmas_. 

“Well, let’s hear it,” Billy says after he kisses Steve thoroughly in thanks. “Go put it in the radio, I wanna hear all the sappy love songs you picked.”

“Only the first half is sappy songs,” Steve tries to defend himself, “The rest is Dolly and Brenda Lee, you’ve gotta get up to speed on me and my mom’s favorites if you wanna stay in our good graces.” The cornered look in his eyes as he goes to put the tape in makes Billy laugh so loud he’s worried about waking up Steve’s parents. 

That fucking song from _Footloose_ , the one that was inescapable a few years ago when the movie came out, blares out of the speakers, _my baby, he don’t talk sweet, he ain’t got much to say,_ and Billy laughs even harder, ignores the ache of his ribs. Steve looks a little pissed off and _very_ cute, his arms crossed over his chest, and Billy holds out a hand, pulls Steve back into bed, kisses his flushed cheeks and murmurs _let’s give the boy a hand_ while Steve rolls his eyes. 

“You’re the _worst,_ ” Steve complains, “I pour out my heart for you in a _beautiful_ mixtape and you _laugh at me?_ Asshole.”

“It’s _great_ ,” Billy tells him, all earnest and shit because _it is,_ “I love it, thank you. Merry Christmas Eve to you too, baby.”

 

They listen to the tape in the Camaro, on the way back to the cabin. Steve had helped him struggle into a button-up shirt and his coat earlier; he’s wearing his loosest jeans, mostly because he can get them on and off without unbuttoning them but also partly because he’s a (mostly) healthy teenage boy who’s not going to be jerking off for the foreseeable future and he’d gotten a boner this morning at breakfast because Steve’d _elbowed him_. He can’t embarrass himself like _that_ again today, jesus, it’s like he’s going through _puberty_ all over again.

“When’d you find the time to make this, pretty boy?” Billy finds himself asking over ABBA, _andante, andante, just let the feeling grow_. 

“I, uh, I made it yesterday, with El and Max,” Steve’s blushing, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed, and Billy feels a little like he could swallow Steve whole, just to keep Steve with him forever. 

“Well, thank you, baby,” Billy coos, tries to make it sound like he isn’t thinking words like _love_ and _always_. Sometimes, Billy remembers just how gay he really is, and this is one of those times, _jesus_.

“I’m glad you like it,” Steve says, all bashful and shit; Billy wants to be the only person to make him blush all pretty like this for as long as Steve’ll let him. 

“Okay, I’m gonna pick you up after dinner, around eight, so don’t get too excited and waste all your energy this morning, it’s a sprint, not a marathon, yeah?” Steve leans over for a kiss, smiling so wide it’s almost impossible for Billy to actually kiss him. Billy _loves it._

“Bye, princess,” Billy says, struggling out of the car. El’s running out to meet him, throws her arms around him to say hello, squeezes him so hard he has to stifle a groan of pain for his aching ribs. 

“Sorry,” she winces back at him, “Now come help Hop make stuffing, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi angels!!! 
> 
> Just so y'all know, the plan is that next chapter will be the rest of Christmas (and the Christmas Party, _hell yeah_ ) and also the end of the actual story; chapter 17 will be an epilogue. (Hopefully a porny one, but we'll fucking see how good I feel I am at writing smut lmao). 
> 
> Other important update: the next three weeks are end of semester/finals week/a huge event at work where I'm gonna be putting in, like, sixty to seventy hours of work (which is a lot for my chronic-illness-having ass), so I'm not sure _exactly_ when the next update will be. It DEFINITELY won't be three weeks, but I can't give y'all a good estimate for when it will be. Sorry angels!!!
> 
> **Fun Notes**
> 
>   * The title of this chapter is from _Just What I Needed_ by The Cars; it's VERY cute if you haven't heard it.
>   * Steve's mom is based almost exactly upon my own mother, minus her love for Dolly and Brenda Lee(mine) and her alcoholism (my dad's). She _regularly_ dances around our kitchen using whatever utensil she's holding at the time as a way to beat on whatever pan or bowl is most readily available. She's very fun. She also does call cuddling croodling, which is, as far as I know, a Scottish term in origin. wild.
>   * I haven't gotten everyone's gifts sorted out yet (I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to make a spreadsheet lmao) but the ones I HAVE decided on are GREAT.
>   * [Here's the link](https://open.spotify.com/user/nikwarr/playlist/0D9yD4TKcVtc7c4urlFNgK?si=Tv3vv4jbRxS_sBSgqDSFdw) to Steve's playlist for Billy. It's VERY VERY GOOD. Go check ti out, just for the Brenda Lee songs if nothing else, shit. For the record, her song _Sweet Nothings_ is the song from which the "uh-huh, honey" from Kanye West's _Bound 2_ is sampled and it's SO FUN!!!
> 

> 
> **In the next installment: Christmas! Croodles! Gifts!**


	16. we're here tonight (and that's enough)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Max learns to call a hog, Steve gets a kick-ass Christmas gift, and all is well, for once._

Billy can smell the cornbread burning around the edges before he gets all the way in the door, which, judging by the horrified, baffled look on Hop’s face as he takes out the, uh, _very well done_ pan of cornbread, seems pretty indicative of how well Hopper’s Christmas cooking has been going. 

“It’s salvageable,” Billy offers as Hop shoots him a despairing look. “You just need to cut off the burnt bits before you crumble it up later. It’s fine.” Hopper’s hair looks terrible, sticking out every which way like he’s been running his fingers through it non-stop for, like, _a week_. Poor guy.

“Oh thank god, this is the third batch I’ve burned,” Hopper sighs, looking at the pan like it’s a disappointment. Billy has to stifle a laugh at the sheer _exhaustion_ on Hopper’s face.

“What else do you need to do? I can’t lift shit, but I can tell you what to do.” El’s got the same look on her face Billy probably does when he looks over at her, the one that says _I’m not gonna laugh at you because I know you’re trying but I want to desperately_. 

“Uh, brussels sprouts, cranberry sauce, and uh, homemade rolls?”

“Why the _hell_ did you tell Joyce we were bringing homemade bread, Hop?” Billy _cannot believe_ Hopper has this much hubris; who the fuck does he think he is? Billy knows _for a fact_ that he’s never made bread a day in his life. 

“I, uh, I wanted to impress her,” Hopper says, blushing a little under his beard, and, like, Billy gets it, okay? It’s a stupid thing to do, since Joyce gets this gooey lovesick look on her face every time Hopper’s within spitting distance, but Billy _gets it,_ feels the same way any time Steve asks him for something and he’s ready to rip off his fucking arm to make it happen. 

“Oh my _god_ , alright. I’m gonna call Axel, he’s probably got some kickass bread recipe we can steal,” Billy sighs, nodding his head at El. She’s already dialing the phone for him, even though he’s probably perfectly capable of doing it himself. 

Axel laughs his fucking head off at Hopper, when Billy explains what he’s calling about, but he rattles off a recipe that sounds _killer_. Billy scribbles it down as well as he can with his hands all fucked up and then, when he’s done, El tugs on his sleeve, makes a face like _how are they doing?_

“El wants to know how everybody’s settling in,” Billy asks, and Axel snorts a laugh. 

“Shockingly, Aus and I are the most civilized ones of the bunch,” Axel sighs, the lack of surprise clear in his drawl. “Kali and Anne mostly just _prowl around the apartment like wild animals_ \--” Billy hears the sound of somebody punching Axel, and he laughs wheezily like somebody got him in the stomach before he goes on.

“Patti’s a _saint,_ we’ve been looking for new apartments but it’s a clusterfuck over here right now with all of us trying to share the spare bedroom and the living room couch. The girls-- _fuck off_ , Kali, what else should I call you guys, _the X-Men?_ \--are all studying so they can get evaluated to start school, but it’s slow goings. And I, uh, I got a job and stuff.” He sounds all casual, but Billy can tell he’s proud of himself. 

“Oh, yeah? Look at you, a real functioning member of society, who woulda thunk it. Where?” Billy prods, hears Axel chuckle down the line.

“Uh, Patti’s clinic needed somebody to help match up all the people who wanted to help with all the people who needed help, and since Kali was already planning on one of us creeping around the damn place to keep Patti safe anyways, it just worked out,” Axel explains, and then there’s the crackle of somebody taking the phone.

“Hi, it’s Austen, Axel’s just being modest, he’s already helped, like, _six people_ get moved in with somebody who has the time and space and stuff to take care of them until they--well, anyways. He had to _cut his hair,_ too, he looks like a _yuppie_ now. Is El there?” Billy can hear Axel’s protests through the phone, and he laughs at their sibling-bullying thing they’ve got going on already. She’s fucking _funny,_ and wherever she was before she found everybody and, like, _saved Billy’s life_ might not have been a nice place for her, at least from what little Hopper’s implied, but she’s surprisingly well-adjusted, for all that. 

“Well, you tell him I’m glad he’s making something of himself, the fuckin’ layabout,” Billy jokes, and her throaty laugh makes him smile. She sounds happy--really, it sounds like _everybody_ is, over there. Good, Billy thinks, they all deserve a little happy. “Yeah, El’s here, you wanna talk to her?”

He passes the phone to El and she starts babbling down the line before he’s even handed it over. It’s funny, how El hasn’t even met Anne and Austen yet and she’s already talking about _her sisters_ like she knows them.

“Ok, Hopper, you’ve got yeast, right?” Billy asks, running the sink hot so he can activate the yeast. 

“Uh...yeah, kid, somewhere over there,” Hopper says all distracted, waving his hand at the _disaster zone_ that is the kitchen table. He’s squinting down at the cranberry sauce bubbling away on the stovetop like it’s a perp he’s pretty sure is gonna confess to murder if he just glares at it for long enough. Billy somehow manages to keep himself from reminding Hopper that El made the cranberry sauce by herself at Thanksgiving; it involves a lot of sad thoughts about Hopper’s other kid. 

“Got it,” Billy says, and “I can watch that for you if you wanna work on the bread, Hop.” Hopper looks _so relieved_ that Billy almost laughs; if Hopper _had_ ever made bread before, he wouldn’t be so happy about being put in charge of the baking. It’s a pain in the ass, honestly, even if Billy does kind of like the alchemy of turning flour and water and yeast and oil into, like, _the best food on the planet_. 

“Patti said she wants to talk to you, Hop,” El pipes up, bringing the receiver over to him and taking over the bread situation. Hop takes the out he’s been given, nearly running into the other room, and El and Billy share a look full of laughter and teasing.

 

While the bread’s rising, Billy tells Hopper and El about Max’s horn for tomorrow. El hasn’t seen _The Grinch,_ so Billy settles in to watch it for the second time in two days, cozy on the couch with El fidgeting around next to him, fucking up the blanket on his lap while she gets comfortable. El’s face is so fucking _expressive_ ; when the Grinch grumps about how much he doesn’t like Christmas and the Whos down in Whoville, she looks at Hopper with this _amazing_ expression that says _you’re lucky you got a better attitude about Christmas before I saw this._

By the end, she’s crying, but they look like the kind of tears Billy’s cried listening to an amazing album or something, the kind of tears people cry in awe or whatever. Billy and Hopper both hum along to the song, and El squeezes Hopper’s hand and Billy’s good wrist tight, smiles over at them. 

“We are a good family,” she says simply, and Billy tries not to make eye contact with Hopper as the both of them tear up. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Hop manages to say, voice deep like he’s trying to hide his tears. “I think so too, kid.” She hugs him, then Billy, and then she gets up to go poke at the risen dough. 

“Be gentle, El,” Hopper yelps, “We don’t wanna mess it up, Joyce’ll be so disappointed!” Billy hides a laugh behind a fake cough, wipes his eyes and stands up, surveying the carnage in the kitchen. 

“El, why don’t we knock down the bread now, then you can do the dishes? By the time you’re done, we’ll be able to shape the rolls, or, well, you and Hop will,” Billy offers. How Hop can make such a goddamn _mess_ when he’s cooking, Billy has no idea. 

 

The rest of the day is quiet, much the same as the morning; they loaf around watching whatever Christmas movies are on (El _hates_ Rudolph, and her rant about him is so funny Billy has to excuse himself onto the porch to calm down) and eating whatever’s around in the house. 

At seven or so, there’s a knock on the door. Hopper stakes out the window to see who it is, gun in hand, and smiles big at whoever’s outside. He puts his gun down safely, swings open the door, and it’s all the little fuckin’ brats, plus Nancy and Steve and Jonathan and Joyce, all singing _Jingle Bells_ with varying degrees of skill and ability to stay on-key. 

“Merry Christmas Eve, El,” Mike yells, running up the stairs to give her a hug. “We wanted to carol for you, since you’ve probably never seen somebody carol before.” She smiles so wide Billy’s almost afraid her face is gonna split in two, and she gives him a giant, smacking kiss on the cheek. He blushes dark and ducks his head while Dustin and Lucas and Max and Will catcall them. 

“You’re supposed to give carollers hot chocolate,” Dustin bitches, and everybody laughs. Hopper goes in to heat up the milk for cocoa and Joyce follows him, brushing her hand against his in a way she probably thinks is super sneaky. _Ew,_ Jonathan mouths at Billy, and Billy cracks up. 

“We’re all gonna look, like, _awful_ at the party thing, right? Our mom’s making us wear nice shit for Christmas lunch, and I _swear to God_ if I have to wear anything fancy to the party I’ll riot,” Nancy complains, and Billy goes down the steps, curls into the warmth of Steve’s coat. Steve presses a kiss to his temple, and he just, like, _melts,_ probably looks like a lovestruck asshole, if Max’s half-disgusted scoff is anything to go by. 

“ _Gross_ , you guys,” Lucas complains, and Dustin glares over at him; he’s got his arm wrapped around Max’s waist and she’s cuddled up against him. 

“Are you fucking SERIOUS?” Dustin screeches, “You’re LITERALLY doing the same shit, I had to share a car ride with you sappy ASSHOLES while you held hands and WHISPERED SWEET NOTHINGS to each other, shit.” Everybody except Max and Lucas cracks up; Max darts out of Lucas’ embrace just long enough to punch Dustin in the arm, hard. 

“Whatever, man,” Lucas says all serene, sharing a look at Billy like they’re _kindred spirits_ or some other stupid shit. God, since when do _any_ of the kids, like, _give a shit_ about him? _Gross._

“I __told you you’d see Billy before the party,” Steve bitches over Billy’s shoulder at Max, who seems to be the least feral she’s maybe ever been, wedging herself peacefully under Lucas arm again.

“I mean, no one told me we were gonna be _caroling_ like this is _nineteen-twenty-friggin-four,_ ” Max snipes back, and Dustin scoffs. 

“Carolling is a TRADITION, Max, just because you’re from California where the only tradition is SELLING YOUR SOUL FOR STARDOM doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be soulless like you.” Max’s eyes flash at Dustin, and he literally flinches back. Steve lets go of Billy (fucking _lame,_ although Billy wouldn’t admit that under pain of death) to get Dustin in a half-nelson, noogies the shit out of him. 

“Quit bullying Max,” Steve lectures, out of breath from keeping hold of Dustin who’s wiggling like his life depends on it, “Or she’s gonna kick your ass and _nobody’s gonna stop her,_ numbnuts!”

“It’s not bullying if it’s _true,_ you’re just taking Billy’s side because you have _feelings,_ ” Dustin starts up, and Max punches him again, more gently than she’s ever seen him.

“Leave my brother alone, he could still kick your ass even though he’s got a concussion and can’t use his hands.” Billy blushes, shivering a little in just his t-shirt, and rubs at his arms as well as he can. Steve’s back around him, wrapping his coat around the two of them so they look like some horrible Platonian being, two halves of a matched set, before Billy can even complain about the cold. He presses a cold-lipped kiss at the nape of Billy’s neck, and Billy feels himself melting, feels the pit of his stomach bloom incandescent. How the _hell_ is he supposed to make it six weeks (or _more,_ god forbid) without being able to _do anything_ with Steve? This fucking _sucks._

“Alright, kids, come and get it,” Joyce exclaims as she backs out onto the porch, four mugs wobbling in her hands. “Steve, you’re gonna help Billy, right?” She leans far enough over the rail that Steve can grab the stupid fucking McDonald’s to-go cup Billy could’ve _sworn_ he left in Chicago and hold it for Billy to drink out of. Hopper comes out with another batch of hot chocolate and they all shoot the shit while they drink it, laughing and poking fun at each other and Dustin until it’s time to take the kids home. Billy’s fucking _tired,_ head pounding a little from half-watching tv all day and _being awake_ and hearing the shrill, off-key carols.

“Take me home, too?” Billy murmurs back towards Steve, and Steve kisses his neck again, lips sticky with hot cocoa. 

“Of course, shug,” he whispers back, “Go get your coat and shit while we herd all the kids, okay? Oh--and, here.” He digs two ibuprofen out of his pocket where they've just been _loose_ apparently, which is kinda gross, but mostly Billy’s just glad Steve’s prepared for Billy’s clusterfuck of symptoms right now. He feeds them to Billy, which, again, kind of gross, but for a totally different reason.

“El,” Billy snags her collar when he gets over to where she and Mike are having _literally_ the most dramatic goodbye of all time, “Come help me for a sec.”

“What?” she bitches, sounding more like Max than Billy’s really comfortable with, if he’s honest, but she follows him into the house anyways. He can _feel her_ rolling her eyes at his back, but he ignores it. 

“Will you get up in the loft,” he says all quiet once the door’s shut behind the two of them, “and bring me down the Fleetwood Mac album?” She gives him a look she must’ve stolen from Max, too, one that says scathingly _you’re such an invalid I can’t believe this_ even though he definitely just, like, _saved her fucking life,_ the little asshole, but she goes up the ladder. He can hear her flipping through records. 

“Why do you need it?” she asks all nosy, but, like, he _does_ actually need her help, so he answers.

“There’s an envelope in there, bring it down?”

“What’s it for?” she pokes her head down, looks at him suspiciously, and he can’t believe he’s letting himself be interrogated by a fucking _nerd,_ even if she does have superpowers. 

“It’s Steve’s present, asshole, just bring it down for me, _shit,_ kid,” Billy grumps, 100% done with the day. 

“What is it, though?” she needles as she comes down the ladder; he snatches it from her hand and runs out the door as best he can with, well, _everything_ hurting to escape her questioning. He somehow remembers to grab his coat on the way out, too, which makes his daring escape from El even more successful. 

“I’m ready to go,” Billy announces as he beelines toward the Camaro. It’s funny that even though Steve’s got that nice-ass Beemer, he still wants to drive Billy’s car around, even if Billy’s not in it; it makes Billy’s stomach do this horrible, girly flip, thinking about it. 

Max and Lucas and Steve and Dustin all pile into the car; Max and Lucas’re definitely holding hands in the backseat, if Dustin’s grouchy face is anything to go by, but, like, it’s kinda cute. Maybe Billy’s going soft now that he’s able to hold hands with Steve over the gearshift; maybe the ibuprofen’s caused a brain bleed and he’s gonna die. Either way, he’s tired and his head hurts like hell but, like, he’s _happy,_ disgustingly so. 

The kids complain about listening to Christmas music, so Steve pushes the mixtape he made Billy into the tape player; the glittering synth of _Lucky Star_ starts up and Max screeches with joy, starts doing some horrible choreographed dance and singing along, _star light, star bright, make everything alright._ Dustin rolls his eyes, but Lucas smiles all big at her, forever indulgent of her bullshit. 

They drop off Lucas first, and Max shoves her giant head out the window and blows him kisses like she’s sailing off on some decade-long sea voyage or some shit; Billy sees Lucas’ mom break into hysterical, shoulder-shaking laughter through the living room window where she’s watching to make sure he gets inside.

“So, when are Kali and the other girls coming to visit? Kali promised she was gonna teach me how to make somebody cry just by looking at them, and if Jessica from my math class keeps calling me a firecrotch I’m gonna have to _destroy her,_ ” Max asks as they head to Dustin’s house.

“I think the plan is to have Ten and Anne and Kali come down for the summer, so they can have a real summer and, like, learn the stuff they’re gonna need to start school, ya know?” Billy answers, dredging up the details Hopper had told him and El after he’d spent half an hour talking to Patti earlier. 

“That’s, like, SIX WHOLE MONTHS,” Max yells, forgetting about Billy’s head for a second. “Oops, sorry, but that’s, like, _six whole months,_ how are we gonna go that long without seeing them? I’ll _die of loneliness_ before then, jeez.” 

“What are we, chopped liver?” Dustin complains. “I mean, shit, you haven’t even _met_ two of them, are you just gonna ditch us for some girls you haven’t even met?” He’s giving her a judgy little fucking look, but the tone in his voice says _very_ clearly that he’ll get his feelings hurt if she even tries it.

“Well, _no,_ obviously, but I _would_ like to have someone other than El and sometimes Clem to talk to about my _period_ and stuff,” she shoots back, and Dustin blushes tomato red, speechless for a second.

“ _Ew,_ ” he says finally, when he picks his jaw up off the floor, “That’s _gross,_ Max, _nobody_ wants to hear about that.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” Max lectures from her high horse, voice all prissy like Nancy’s gets when Billy pisses her off a little. “My _natural bodily functions_ aren’t gross, you’re just a titty baby.”

They squabble for a little bit; Billy closes his eyes and tries to focus on Dolly’s voice asking some deadbeat ex _why’d you come in here lookin’ like that when you could stop traffic in a gunnysack_ instead, but he must be showing on his face just how much his head hurts, because Steve lets go of Billy’s hand long enough to reach a hand backwards and smack at whichever one of the kids he can reach. 

“Fucking _quit,_ ” he admonishes them quietly, “Billy’s still got a concussion, assholes, be quiet for like _five seconds,_ jesus.” He slips his hand back into Billy’s and squeezes once, gently; Billy squeezes back twice, the most he can really do at the moment.

“I think one of my aunts has a house in the burbs of Chicago somewhere, maybe we can take a trip up there for a few days during spring break or something, okay? I’ll see what we can do.” Steve’s so good, always has some sweet solution to make everybody happy; Billy _loves that_ about him. The idea of loving anything _else_ about him (other than his cute little ass and his skinny chicken legs and his smooth skin and--well, _anyways_ ) makes Billy’s head hurt to think about, so he pushes the idea away, ignores Max and Dustin still arguing in whispers behind him and drifts as best he can. 

“Okay, Dustin, Merry Christmas, see you Saturday,” Steve murmurs when they roll to a stop in front of his house. “Go be nice to your mom, okay? She deserves it, spending so much time with you this week.” Dustin scoffs like he’s offended, but Billy can tell without opening his eyes that Dustin’s smiling at Steve. 

“Whatever, asshole, Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Max, Billy, see you guys Saturday. I got you guys some badass presents,” Dustin boasts before he shuts the door and goes into his house. Billy kind of dozes the whole way back to Max’s house, but he wakes up with a start when his door opens, letting all the cold air in. “Give me a hug, asshole, since you’re making me spend all of Christmas with Neil and my mom _alone,_ ” she smiles down at him, eyes only a little sad. He holds out his arms and she gives him a surprisingly gentle squeeze. 

“Love you, Mad Max,” BIlly says back to her, smacking her on the back a little harder than he means to with his cast. “You got this, but call me tomorrow, okay? On Will’s radio or something if you can't use the phone, I’ll be over there all day. Merry Christmas, kid.”

“ _Obviously_ I got this,” she peacocks, “But, like, I’ll call you _I guess,_ so you don’t miss me.” He rolls his eyes at her, ignoring how much it makes his head spin. “Whatever, asshole,” he retorts, and she smiles big and vicious at him. 

“Love you back, Billy,” she says, and punches him hard in the thigh. She darts out of his reach before he can retaliate, slams his door just to piss him off. 

“Bye Steve!” she yells, turning to go in the house. Billy smiles at her back, thinking all the mushy shit about her he would never tell her to her face.

“I don’t understand siblings,” Steve laughs as they pull out of the driveway. “ _Thank God_ I’m an only child, honestly.”

“Well, we’re more like we were before--uh, before we moved out here than we’ve been in a long time,” Billy says. It’s important, Billy decides through the haze of his headache, that Steve understands just why he and Max had been at each other’s throats for so long. “She, uh, have I told you about why we moved out here yet?”

“No,” Steve says carefully, after a long pause, “And you don’t have to tell me until you’re ready.”

“Great, well, I’m ready now, so,” Billy starts, a little harsher than he means to, and he squeezes Steve’s hand as an apology. “She, uh, she knew that I was a qu--that I only like boys, and last spring I had gone out with some guy the night before and he’d marked me up a little, left this hickey on my neck. I’d slept through breakfast, and when I got up to get ready for school, Max was already up. She musta thought Neil’d left the house already or some shit, but she wouldn’t leave me alone about it, kept poking at it and asking if it was this guy or that guy I’d been out with before. 

“Neil busted out of the bathroom so fast he almost knocked it off the hinges and came out looking like he was ready to kill somebody. He told Max to skate to school that morning, that I’d pick her up from school later or whatever, and as soon as she got out the door, he started swinging.

“He, uh, once he left I was alone for a while. Max came home from school bitching about how I’d forgotten to pick her up and she’d had to board home, and she, uh, she found me on the living room floor. She called for an ambulance and, uh, I was in the hospital for, like, a month or something. It sucked, and then basically as soon as I got out we moved here.

“She didn’t mean to, probably, but at the time I was so mad at her, for telling Neil and getting me beat up and making us _move to fucking Indiana_ that I blamed her for all of it, but it was my fault, too, I knew better than to let some guy do that to me. Whenever I had marks he’d push me around a little, remind me that _just because my deadbeat dad had been stupid enough not to pull out didn’t mean I could get some bitch pregnant_ and shit, not to mention the whole--the whole gay thing. I was just as stupid about it as she was.” It all comes out in a rush, and he’s pretty sure nothing he’d said makes, like, _any sense,_ but Steve looks over at him for a second, then pulls off onto the shoulder, flicks the hazards on. 

“Baby--Billy--that’s _awful,_ I’m so sorry.” Billy grimaces over at him, but before he can interrupt to stop Steve from apologizing any more, Steve goes on, “What happened to you--it wasn’t your fault, or Max’s fault, or anyone’s fault but Neil’s. _Nobody_ should be so shitty to their kid, ever, _no matter_ what, and you don’t ever deserve to be treated like that, you know?” 

Billy’s heard all this shit before, when the lady from Child Protective Services came to the hospital, but Billy had been smart enough to know then that she couldn’t do much of anything other than put him in an overcrowded group home. Hearing Steve say it, though, his voice gentle but serious, makes Billy rethink a little.

“I mean, whatever, I was taking risks I didn’t need to take,” he mumbles, but his excuses sound weak even to his own ears.

“If anyone ever tries that shit again,” Steve warns, “I’ll fuck them up so bad they won’t be able to ID the body, okay?” Billy bites his lip; he probably shouldn’t feel so attracted to Steve when he gets all violent, but _fuck,_ he does. 

“Okay, princess,” he says finally, and Steve leans over to kiss his cheek before he puts the car back in drive and takes them home. 

 

“MERRY CHRISTMAS,” Max’s voice shrieks through the walkie-talkie Steve must’ve fallen asleep holding; Billy smacks at the damn thing until Steve reaches over to turn the volume down, blinking owlishly over at the clock. 

“It’s _five-thirty,_ ” Steve hisses into the radio, “Merry Christmas, Max, now _go the fuck back to sleep,_ asshole.” She laughs like some evil genius, the signal breaking up a little, and Steve shoves the walkie talkie under a pillow. 

“ _Merry Christmas, darling,_ ” Billy croons into Steve’s ear, his voice as Karen-Carpenter-smooth as he can make it when he’s still half-asleep and a little dehydrated.

“Fuck off,” Steve swears into the pillow he’s burrowed into, but he pushes his body back into Billy’s, wiggles a little in a way that’s just _mean_ , given his stance on sex before Billy’s cleared for it. “It’s not Christmas until after eight, you dick.”

“Okay, sleepy baby,” Billy smiles, closes his eyes and drifts off. He wakes up again at seven-thirty when Dustin pulls the same shit Max had, but it’s muffled enough that Steve doesn’t wake up. Billy’s head hurts, as per usual honestly, but his vision’s clear and there’s no ringing in his ears; maybe this’ll be the first good Christmas he’s had since before Neil. 

 

Having a good Christmas is a little anticlimactic, if he’s honest; he and Steve make out for a while before his mom calls them in for breakfast, already dressed to the nines like anyone other than the two of them and Steve’s dad are gonna see her today. 

“Oh, Stevie, baby,” she says as she hands them both mimosas sharp with champagne, “Santa came last night and left you boys a little something on the fireplace, run go get it.” Steve rolls his eyes at Billy over his plate of bourbon-brown sugar bread pudding, snags Billy’s champagne flute long enough to drain it in two swallows and refill it with plain orange juice. 

He comes back in with these _massive_ stockings, drops one of them on the table for Billy to unpack. It has Billy’s _name_ embroidered on it, and Steve’s purposefully not looking at him, like he’s embarrassed by his mom’s over-the-top _thing_ she’s doing. It’s got all the normal shit, candy and chocolate and an orange in the toe, but there’s a half-dozen pairs of socks and a package of his preferred underwear too, which is only a little creepy because he _knows_ Steve doesn’t wear the same brand. She’s shoved a few twenties in with all the other shit, and Steve blushes red when Billy catches his eye for long enough to raise his eyebrows like _what the fuck is this rich kid Christmas shit?_

“Well, Miss Helen, you’d better tell Santa thank you for me, he even managed to find me a Brenda Lee tape before I knew I wanted one,” Billy says, mouth already full of chocolate Santa, and she looks up at him from her perch on the floor in front of the oven where she’s keeping close watch over her pies. 

“I’ll make sure to let him know, honey,” she smiles, voice full of amusement. “Steve, baby, did Santa get you the socks you like?”

“Yeah, Momma,” he agrees, yawning wide, “Although why he had to leave it all in the garage for _me_ to pack into these stockings last night is _truly_ a Christmas mystery.” She throws her oven mitt at him, but giggles a little.

“Well, Santa knows you won’t be heartbroken if your stocking isn’t a surprise,” she defends herself, and Billy nearly spits out his mouthful of bread pudding at her righteous indignation. 

Steve helps him shower and fix his hair after breakfast, bitching the whole time about what a glamourpuss Billy is. 

“You want your present now or tomorrow, princess?” Billy asks as Steve’s tying his boots. 

“Well, is it a good present?” Steve asks, mouth all prissy, and when Billy kicks his foot half-heartedly as if to say _fuck off,_ “Yeah, I want it now, B.” 

Billy has to take a second to, like, _breathe_ through the wonderful, awful visions of Steve on his knees between Billy's legs sighing _I want it now, B_ running through his head before he can rustle around in his coat and find the envelope. 

“It’s pretty _small,_ ” Steve complains, and from the wicked little glint in his eye, he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing to Billy with his voice and his face and his whole _thing._

“Just open it, you fucking tease,” Billy grumps, real dramatic, but Steve’s face as he reads the name on the tickets is _definitely_ worth all Steve’s bullshit teasing. “DOLLY PARTON?!” Steve hollers, and Billy winces back. Steve’s on his lap, kissing every part of Billy’s face he can reach with the tickets clutched in one hand, before Billy realizes he’s moved. 

“Billy, you shouldn’t have,” Steve beams, which, _yeah right._ If Steve thinks the sixty dollars plus shipping Billy paid for the tickets isn’t worth the sheer, incandescent joy on Steve’s face, he’s fucking insane.

“It’s in April, so you can’t break up with me before then,” Billy jokes, and Steve laughs a little hysterically, like he can’t believe it. 

“I’d never, shug,” he murmurs, still peppering kisses all over Billy’s face. “If I try to break up with you, like, _ever,_ assume I’m a bodysnatcher, okay?”

“Thanks, baby,” Billy says, blushing and burying his face in Steve’s neck. 

“Thank you, B, these are great, holy shit,” Steve says. “I gotta--let me go tell my mom and then we’ll go to the Byers’, okay?” He literally _runs_ out of the room, yelling _ma! mom! Helen!_ the whole way. Billy hears her shriek all the way from Steve’s dad’s study, which is basically on the other side of the house, and compliments himself about being the best gift-giver ever. 

When Steve comes back, Billy’s almost done struggling into his coat. 

“Lemme help you, B,” Steve says, settling the shoulder of the coat over Billy’s bad arm. “Do, uh, do you want your gift? It’s not nearly as good as Dolly tickets, but I think you’re gonna like it anyways.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” Billy reassures him, and Steve grabs one of the gift bags that are taking over one corner of Billy’s room, waiting for the party tomorrow. Billy pulls the tissue paper out of the bag, and sticks his hand into what he knows is cashmere. It’s the same exact fucking cashmere sweater he’d seen in the mall a few months ago, the black crewneck one, and when Billy rubs it on his face like he’s a fucking cat or something, it already smells like Steve’s stupid preppy Polo cologne. 

“Babe,” he says stupidly, all choked up about a fucking _sweater_ like he’s some kinda _girl_ , but Steve just smiles at him, leans down to kiss him. 

“There’s another one,” Steve laughs, pulling out a red one that’s got a black collar and cuffs. “I know they’re, like, _stupid prep shit,_ but, like, they’re really warm and soft and I know you liked my stupid snowflake one, so I found you some cool ones, but if you don’t--” 

“Steve,” Billy interrupts him, “I love it. Come here and kiss me, please.” Steve sits next to him on the bed, kisses him so thoroughly he feels like he can taste Steve’s affection. 

They untangle themselves from each other eventually, and Billy makes Steve help him change into the red sweater before they leave the house. Being all wrapped up in Steve’s smell warms the pit of his stomach, makes him feel all safe and cared for in a way he loves. It makes him think about all the other ways Steve could _take care_ of him, and he has to recite the times tables in his head backwards to get his shit back under control on the car ride. 

They beat El and Hopper to the Byers’, which isn’t that surprising considering how much Hopper had been freaking out the day before about everything being perfect. Steve comes in to say hi, gives Will a hug that makes Will blush, and Billy _gets that,_ really; if he could blush every time he looked at Steve and keep his reputation as a badass, he would, every time.

He’s kissing Steve goodbye on the porch, out of sight of the Byers’ even though they all know and don’t give a shit anyways, when Hopper’s truck comes barreling up the drive. 

El hops out of the car as soon as it’s come to a complete stop and hugs the both of them together, gently like she actually remembers his broken ribs this time. “Hi Steve,” she says, looking up at him like she’s staring into his _soul_ or some shit, the little weirdo. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, El,” Steve greets her, picking her up by the armpits and swinging her around in a circle. “Did Santa bring you some cool stuff?”

“Santa isn’t real,” she replies, wrinkling her nose at him, “But Hopper got me a bike, so this summer I can ride everywhere with Mike and Will and Max and Dustin and Lucas.”

“Now _hold on just a minute,_ ” Hopper protests from where he’s pulling food out of the back of the truck, “that is _absolutely_ not what we agreed upon, kid. I said you could ride it to town, a few days a week, _with supervision_ at first.”

“Whatever, Hopdad,” she waves her hand as if to say _you can’t control me now that I’m a cool teen with a bike._ She’s heading inside to tell Will the good news before she looks back, so she doesn’t see Hopper almost drop all the food he’s holding in surprised happiness. 

“Want some help, _Hopdad?_ ” Steve asks, already down the steps toward the car, and Hopper doesn’t protest, just lets Steve grab the food and stares at the front door like he’s shellshocked. 

“We got you, Hopdad,” Billy laughs, and Hopper literally has to shake his head to come back to himself. 

“Well, _shit,_ Merry Christmas, boys” he says, beaming, and pulls Billy into a massive hug; he grabs Billy around the shoulders so he doesn’t absolutely pulverize Billy’s ribs, but it still hurts a little. Billy taps him on the back with his good arm until Hopper lets him go. 

“Now, let’s go _impress your woman_ ,” Billy teases, waggling his eyebrows, and Steve laughs loud and long. Hopper gives him a dirty look, but he holds the door open so they can all go inside. Billy has to kiss Steve goodbye, of course, and smoke a cigarette on the porch as he watches Steve drive away, but the rest of his Christmas is surprisingly uneventful, just he and Jonathan comparing notes on the records they’d each gotten and everybody stuffing themselves with good food and the radio playing the same, like, fifteen Christmas songs all day. 

He and El team up to give Hopper a terrifying Christmas sweater with a cross-eyed Rudolph knitted into it and three muddy paisley ties; Hopper threatens to wear them to work and tell everybody just who gifted them, though, which is threat enough that they both hand over the cards they’ve written full of, like, nice shit to make up for the joke gifts.

Max calls him around three, complains about how annoying it is to be home alone while Neil drinks and her mom burns Christmas dinner again, so Billy tells her the Hopdad story like four times because it makes her laugh like a maniac every time. When he tells her what he got Steve, she gags theatrically about listening to country but then coos about how cute they are for like _five minutes straight_ ; girls are fucking _weird._

He falls asleep on the awful old couch after dinner, lulled by the warmth of the room and the sounds of El and Will comparing notes on what they’ve gotten everybody else for the party Christmas tomorrow, and when he wakes up, slow and calm, he remembers suddenly the last time he woke up in this house, back when he was just a piece-of-shit idiot who was willing to fight a fucking _kid_ because he had the audacity to hang out with Billy’s sister. He’s pretty proud of himself, honestly, of all the ways he’s been, like, _better_ since then.

When Steve comes to pick him up, his forehead’s all tight like it gets when he’s stressed about whatever bullshit Dustin’s decided to pull on any given day. Billy wishes he could smooth out the lines with kisses, but Steve’s driving, so he has to settle for, like, _talking about it._ Gross. 

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asks, tentative. Steve glances over at him, surprise on his face.

“Uh, just family shit,” he says, “How could you tell?”

“You get this little wrinkle in your forehead,” Billy says, rubbing his knuckle against his own forehead. “Plus you didn’t even give Jonathan any shit, I know that’s, like, your favorite pastime nowadays.”

“Whatever,” Steve snaps, but he realizes he’s being an asshole, apparently, because he takes a deep breath, rolls his head on his neck a little and says, “Sorry, dad was just--he said _if I’m just gonna be a trust fund kid, I should at least do something rebellious, not just lie around the house and suck up all his hard-earned money_. Like, I get that I’m not the smartest dude in the world, shit, but, like, sometimes I feel like he’d be happier with me if I were on coke and shit, because at least then he’d have something to blame me being an idiot on, you know?”

“Well, we can smoke a joint in his office after he goes to sleep if you want,” Billy offers, but Steve’s face stays stormy. “Or you could show him he’s wrong about you by finding something you care about and kicking its ass like I know you can, huh? Just because you aren’t cut out for, like, rocket science doesn’t mean you aren’t smart and shit, I mean you’re the one who _saved my ass_ like, a week ago, remember?”

Steve steals a glance at him like he thinks Billy might be joking, which is _so fucked up_ Billy seriously considers how hard it would be to kick Steve’s dad’s ass with his hands and shit all fucked up. 

“If your dad doesn’t see how special you are, he isn’t looking hard enough,” Billy finishes, and Steve smiles, just a little. 

“Thanks, B, I’m just _ready for bed_ , honestly, like, if I could sleep until Tuesday when they leave I’d be the happiest person alive, probably.”

“Well, we can’t miss the party Christmas tomorrow, babe, but I can make you drag me on a giant, day-long date on Sunday, and we can sleep in on Monday, yeah?” Billy’s not sure how well he’s doing at, like, comforting Steve, but Steve reaches over to grab Billy’s less fucked up hand and smiles at him bigger this time, so he's probably doing okay.

“My mom’s gonna love Max,” he says after a minute, “And she’s gonna drive dad _crazy,_ holy shit.”

“Well, good, she can drive him crazy instead’a me, __shit.” Billy holds their hands up long enough to kiss the back of Steve’s hand, then leans back against the headrest.

“Will you read me _Macbeth_ when we get home? I know you gotta finish it before school starts again, and I like the witches and shit. Lady Macbeth’s _so metal_ , too.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve sighs, “Even though I hate the Old English bullshit.”

“I’ll explain the dick jokes,” Billy offers, and Steve laughs, nods. There aren’t _that many_ dick jokes in _Macbeth_ , but Billy’s pretty sure he’s got Steve wrapped up just far enough around his little finger that Steve won’t mind too much.

 

The next morning, Steve leaves to go get Max before Billy’s fully awake. He leaves Billy a mug of tea, though, and it’s still hot enough to drink when Billy does wake up. There’s a sound like two cats fighting coming from the kitchen, and when he levers himself out of bed and follows the noise, Helen and Max are standing in the middle of the kitchen holding their stomachs and _yelling._

“What the fu--uh, what the heck are you two doing?” Billy asks, not sure he wants to know the answer; from the way Steve’s got his head hidden in his hands, it can’t be very good.

“I’m teaching her how to call a hog,” Miss Helen answers as if _that’s_ a normal human thing to do, and Max looks over at him with a terrifying, like, _bloodlust_ in her eyes.

“I’ve got the perfect voice for pig calls,” Max adds, baring her teeth at Billy joyfully. “She said the pigs’ll be able to hear me for miles.”

“Max,” Steve starts, stops, sighs. “Max, there _aren’t any pigs_ just, like, _living in the woods of Hawkins,_ you know that, right?”

“It’s always good to know your strengths,” Steve’s mom says primly, and Billy walks over and leans his head against Steve’s shoulder, hiding the laugh he feels coming.

 

________

 

Sometimes, Steve wonders exactly how his life has become Like This; he’s sitting in his kitchen the day after Christmas, listening to his mom teach his boyfriend’s little sister how to _call fucking hogs_ , which is even more surreal because he’s, like, eighty percent sure they don’t even call hogs in Houston where she’s from, anyways, and he has no idea how the hell he got here, honestly. 

Billy comes into the room and Max plays up her whole _feral child_ thing because she knows it makes him smile even when it pisses him off. Steve can’t even pretend this is a normal thing, although with all the crazy shit his mom’s pulled in his life he’s pretty sure it would be if she were around more, and so he just puts his head in his hands and shakes with laughter, just a little. Billy comes around to cuddle him, and Steve’s filled with affection for the big dumb _hero_ he’s got curled around him, murmuring a play-by-play of Max’s dumb fuckin’ face. 

“Okay, now from the diaphragm, like I showed you, honey,” his mom says, and she and Max bellow out together again, louder than they have been for the fifteen minutes they’ve been calling hogs. Billy flinches back from the noise, and his discomfort’s enough to spur Steve into action. 

“Momma, _please,_ Billy’s got a concussion, he needs some peace and quiet,” Steve begs, and Max turns her terrifying feral child smile (if he can even call it that; it’s really more of an exercise in how many teeth she can show whoever she’s looking at, if he’s honest) on him. 

“Sorry, Billy,” Max hollers, drawing his name out into one last loud, horrible pig call. “Miss Helen, you are a _delight_.” Billy sits down in the next chair heavily, gives Steve a look like _where the fuck did she learn that?_ Steve gives him a look right back like _I don’t know and I wish I had never heard it._

“Y’all want breakfast? You _are_ growing boys--and girls, Max,” his mom says, already dishing grits out into the fancy china she loves to use for, like, _nothing_ occasions; she always says _you’ve gotta use it before you’re dead, you know!_ and laughs it off when his dad inevitably breaks a saucer or whatever.

“Yes, ma’am,” Max says, and Billy gives her a look like she’s a pod person or something. “ _What,_ Billy, I _do_ have manners, you know.”

“Well, I’ve never seen ‘em,” Steve interjects, and Billy laughs as Max glares at him. Billy spoons up some grits and makes probably the funniest grimace of all time when he gets them into his mouth, clearly trying not to be rude.

“ _Oh,_ ” he manages to say, mouth full, “You make sweet grits.” Steve’s already laughing at the look on Billy’s face, and Max is so lost in her own bowl she has no idea what the joke is when Steve’s mom bursts into laughter too.

“What?” she demands, not wanting to be left out.

“He--Billy, well, he--” Steve’s mom is laughing so hard at Billy’s chipmunk cheeks and horrified face she can’t finish her sentence, so Steve has to be the adult in the room. (Which, by the way, is frankly a terrifying concept, given how frequently he has to pretend like he knows what the fuck is going on.)

“Billy’s used to savory grits, with salt and stuff, and my mom makes hers, like, _way sweet,_ ” Steve explains, rolling his eyes. 

Billy finally manages to swallow his grits, and his murmured, clearly fake compliment about how good they are sends his mom straight back into her laughing fit. They get through the rest of breakfast without any more excitement, although Billy and his mom _do_ have an argument about the appropriate seasonings for grits that Steve is smart enough not to take a side in. Max takes his mom’s side, and Billy tries unsuccessfully to pull the _I’ve been tortured_ card on her without actually _saying so_ in front of Steve’s mom, thank _god._

They laze around the house until it’s time to go to Joyce’s, listening to Christmas music and comparing presents. Susan got Max a bunch of green and yellow clothes and shit this year instead of pink, _finally,_ apparently, and Steve’s parents got him a bunch of SAT books and some more sweaters and offered to upgrade his car, which he decides not to tell Max and Billy about for what he figures are obvious reasons. 

Max is being a nosy _asshole_ when Steve goes to put him and Billy’s presents for everybody in the car, but somehow Steve manages to keep her from realizing that the giant bag Steve’d had to gift wrap for Billy yesterday has her name on it. She’s gonna lose her fucking mind when she realizes what it is, and what Steve’s matching gift for her is, too. Steve’s excited about it, though as they head over to the Byers’ he wishes he’d thought to bring earplugs; she’s _absolutely_ gonna scream the house down.

They’re the first to get there, and Will and Jonathan are out picking up Mike and Nancy, so it’s just Joyce, who seems a little overwhelmed by figuring out what to do with all the leftovers and snacks she needs to put out for the hordes of hungry teens. Once Steve gets Billy situated in the kitchen, helping her decide what’s gonna go where and how well she’s gonna have to hide the desserts so the kids don’t just eat sugar all day, he goes out to the Camaro and unpacks the trunk. 

“Max,” he says when he hears somebody driving up the laneway, “go help whoever it is bring in their shit, please.” She rolls her eyes at him and moans about _how unfair life is_ the whole way there, but she helps Lucas and Dustin carry in all their gifts, peeking at the wrapping paper labels and envelopes like she’s got x-ray vision. He’d rather she do that than find out about her presents from him and Billy, honestly, so _whatever._

Joyce is portioning apple cider out of the crockpot into cups when he gets back inside; Billy’s got a giant mug the two of them are apparently supposed to share, which is fine, honestly. Sometimes, it surprises Steve how chill Hop and Joyce are about the whole gay thing, but then he remembers some of the rumors his dad told him about what Joyce was like in high school and, honestly, it would be the pot calling the kettle black a little bit, apparently. 

The kids are already making the house ring with noise and half of them aren’t even here yet, but that’s pretty fucking normal, if Steve’s honest. Joyce pulls out a little bottle of Fireball and waggles it at him, and he’s half-tempted to let her spike his cup until he remembers Billy’s drinking out of it too. She shrugs at him when he shakes his head no, pours a healthy glug into two mugs, and hands the one she’s not drinking over to Hop when he comes in, looking tired. 

“ _God,_ why is my kid so fucking _weird_ about Christmas? She slept in until like eight-thirty yesterday and this morning she woke me up at _five-fifteen_ , the little shit,” Hop grouches, taking the cup and drinking half of it in one go. 

“Well, Hop, she _is_ seeing the rest of the kids today, and yesterday all she had for company was you and Billy,” she teases, and he reaches his spare arm out like he’s gonna do-- _something,_ before he remembers Billy and Steve are both in the room, staring at the two of them, and that the other kids are pretty much in full view, too. It’s mostly cute, the way the two of them smooth each other’s ruffled feathers, but it’s a little gross, in the way old people showing affection usually is.

“I WANT MY PRESENTS!” Max yells from the living room, even though there’s absolutely no need for her to; she’s a fucking _gremlin_ sometimes. “NANCY AND JONATHAN AND WILL AND MIKE ARE HERE NOW!”

“Max, concussion,” Joyce reminds her, but she starts carrying mugs into the living room anyways. 

“If they don’t _hurry up and get in here,_ ” Max threatens, “I’m gonna show everybody my hog calls.” It’s not an empty threat, and Steve feels Billy tense up in anticipation.

“Not inside, Mad Max,” Steve argues, “Show everybody _outside, later,_ for the love of everything holy.”

“Did you guys know Steve’s mom is Southern, and she can _call hogs,_ it’s fuc--friggin’ _crazy,_ ” Max explains to the group, and everybody but Dustin starts asking a million questions, which is mostly just embarrassing. He’s saved from having to figure out how to self-combust when Hop nudges at his shoulder with his coffee cup and hands him an envelope. 

“Here, kid,” he says all gruff, the way he does when he doesn’t want anybody to know he gives a shit. “I, uh, I thought it’d be a good fit, you know?” While Hopper’s gulping the rest of his spiked apple cider so he doesn’t have to look at Steve, Steve opens the envelope, pulls out a job application for the Hawkins Police Department and an information sheet on the state police academy. He’s a little confused, if he’s honest, and he just looks at the papers for a second, until Billy elbows him. 

“And _why_ exactly did you decide to give these to Steve as his Christmas?” Billy asks, mildly, like he already knows the answer. 

“You’d be a huge help out in the field, once you graduate, I mean,” Hopper explains, clearly a little uncomfortable. “I mean, my other two deputies are fucking _useless_ when it comes to all that Upside Down shit, and just in case anybody else gets a wild hair and decides to come sniffing around the lab, you’d be helpful.” Steve can feel Billy glaring at Hopper, and finally Hopper sighs all put-upon and continues his explanation.

“Plus, I think you’d make a great cop, kid. You’re _brave as hell_ and good in a crisis, even one that involves somebody you care about, and that’s something a lot of cops aren’t. You’ll have to do some physical training, probably, but I’ll put in a good word for you at the academy, if you, uh, if you want.”

“I--uh, _really?_ ” Steve says, like an idiot, and Billy wraps an arm around him, presses a kiss to the nape of his neck like hes trying to shore up Steve's confidence. 

“ _Yeah,_ kid, I’m not gonna put any other stupid motherfuckers on my squad, I’ve already got two,” Hopper deflects, and Steve--he can’t believe it. Hopper’s standing in front of him saying he’s brave and good in a crisis and _good enough to be a fucking cop,_ like--Steve has to swallow hard around the lump in his throat, and he can’t look at Hopper for a second. 

“Who’s gonna train me, then?” Steve asks jokingly once he gets his voice back. “Since clearly _you’re_ the picture of physical fitness.” 

“Me, babe,” Billy laughs, “Definitely not the Chief.” Hopper makes a horrible offended noise, but he doesn’t exactly disagree, either. 

Nancy and Mike and Will and Jonathan come in with all their parcels and Hop only has to yell twice to get everybody to sit down and shut the hell up. Steve’s pretty sure Jonathan and Billy both hand each other a few joints when they shake hands in greeting, which is almost certainly not gonna be the weirdest gift somebody gets today.

“Youngest is the elf!” Will exclaims, “El, you gotta pass out all the presents, ha!” It’s clear that Will’s _really_ tired of having to be the elf every year for Christmas, and El looks a little grumpy until Joyce passes her a horrible little elf hat. 

“Oh shit, Max, I made you something,” Billy interrupts. “Steve, did you bring it in from the car?” Steve reaches under the chair he’d already claimed for the two of them and pulls out the horn they’d made the other day, passes it to Billy. 

“What the hell is this,” Max demands, voice a dangerous monotone.

“Since you’re Max, you get to be the reindeer,” Billy exclaims, and Lucas starts the cascade of laughter. Max steams about it for a second, then decides to play nice and pulls it out of Billy’s hand. 

“Fine, you _asshole,_ sorry Joyce, you get to put it on me, then, Lucas,” she grumbles, handing it to Lucas. He ties the bow under her chin so big and dramatic Steve’s surprised she doesn’t hit him, but he does hear Lucas yelp when El starts passing out presents, so he figures she must’ve pinched him or something. 

It seems like most of the kids have given each other cash for the arcade, with a few notable exceptions: El and Max exchange horrific printed neon shirts that even _Joyce_ can’t find anything nice to say about; Will passes out little figurines of everybody’s D&D characters, handpainted and beautiful; Mike gives El a stuffed bear wearing a Christmas hat that’s so big she can hardly hold onto it; Max throws an unwrapped hat at Dustin and says _please burn the terrible one you’re wearing_ with such a sweet smile that it takes everybody off guard; Lucas passes Max a little box, the kind that jewelry usually comes in, and she gives him a suspicious little look. 

“If you bought me some dumb jewelry…” she threatens, and Lucas laughs. 

“ _Nah,_ Max, just open it, jesus,” Lucas says, indulgent like he usually is with her. She does, still squinting over at him like a necklace is gonna jump out at her, but nestled in the cotton padding is a teeny little pocket knife, the handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. 

“Where the _hell_ did you buy a knife?” Hopper demands to know while Max is dancing in her seat like an idiot and kissing Lucas on the cheek. 

“I helped him,” Billy explains, “I figured she’d love it and _god knows_ she’s not dumb enough to try to use it to hurt anybody, _right Max?_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, never,” she dismisses him, “Unless it’s something from the Upside Down, in which case I figure none of you guys’ll be too mad at me.” Hopper can’t really argue with that, though from the way his eyebrows are all judgemental at Billy, he’s gonna get an earful the next time they’re alone together. 

“BILLY,” Max yelps, “Give me my present, please, I know it’s the big one.” She’s a fucking _asshole,_ Steve thinks, but he likes her a hell of a lot anyways, just like Billy. God, he’s gonna have a soft spot for all her juvenile delinquency later, too, he can already tell. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and elbows Steve. 

“Mine goes with it,” Steve says when he drops the giant bag and the box with her name scrawled on it down on the floor at her feet. She rips into the wrapping paper around the bag, pulls the zipper before she’s even got all the paper off, and shrieks with joy at the hockey gear. There’s a couple IOUs in the bag, for skates that fit right and a stick she likes, but there’s almost a full set of gear, and Steve can _literally_ see the hearts in her eyes.

“You’re THE BEST BIG BROTHER,” she yells, throwing herself into the chair with him, “Oh my GOD I can’t BELIEVE you did this, you asshole, thank you!” 

“Open the other one, then,” Billy says, wincing where her knee’s digging into his ribs a little. She jumps off him and goes back to sit down in fornt of her gear.

“WHEELS!” she yells, ripping off the wrapping paper to find a set of inline skates.

“Well, I figure you’re probably gonna need hockey lessons all the way through summer, kid, if you wanna make the team next year,” Steve explains, blushing, and she’s _incandescent_ with joy, hugging so hard he’s surprised she doesn’t crack any of his ribs.

He passes the little box for Dustin to him, too, and Dustin almost doesn’t realize there’s a little brochure for the nerd camp Steve’d asked Mrs. Henderson if he could pay for this summer because he’s so excited about the Walkman. When he does realize, he yells almost as loud as Max had, and there’s a distinct sniffing sound like somebody’s trying to hide their crying from over where Joyce and Hopper are sitting.

Mike’s been looking all shifty over at Billy and Steve for the whole afternoon, and so when he passes over two envelopes, Steve’s not even a little surprised. Steve starts to rip his open, but Mike starts talking in his _big important speech_ voice before he can see what’s inside.

“You two haven’t always been part of the party,” he starts, and, like, Steve’s _already_ tearing up a little, which is so embarrassing he might just die to avoid the way Dustin’s gonna poke fun at him later. 

“ _But,_ ” he goes on after a probably unnecessarily long pause, “You’ve both proven yourselves to be loyal, trustworthy, and decent, well, most of the time, anyways. Billy, you’re officially invited to be a part of the party, now. Your character sheet’s filled in and everything, look at it. 

“And Steve, while you’re already an official member of the party, some of your game skills lack...finesse, so I’ve decided to gift you some lessons; I’m going to teach you how to play for real,” Steve can’t decide if he’s offended or not, honestly, but the little gift certificate he clearly got Will to design says _I.O.U. remedial Dungeons & Dragons lessons_ and, like, he knows that this is just how Mike is, always a little bit of a tight-ass but caring in his own weird little way nonetheless. 

“When we last were in this space together,” Mike goes on, and Max rolls her eyes a little at Billy, who has to duck his head to hide his smile, “there was a distinct division, violence done to both sides. Now, we sit in harmony, appreciative of each other’s differences.”

Steve knows what he means, really; the last time he and the kids’d been here, it had been a fucking _nightmare,_ and now it feels more like the best dream, with Billy sitting almost in his lap, rubbing absently at the back of Steve’s neck with one hand, and all the kids smiling and bickering in the way that kids who are best friends always do. It’s like one of those movies where somehow, everything all works out in the end, even though if somebody’d asked Steve at Halloween if he thought this was where they’d be now, he would’ve laughed in their face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI BABIES I TOLD YALL IT WOULDN'T BE A FULL THREE WEEKS!!!
> 
> I'm _so glad_ to be done with this chapter; I've been actively trying to work on it since literally the day after I put up chapter fifteen, and it just _would not_ let itself be written. I'm still not super happy with it, but it's much better than my first, like, four drafts, so I'm gonna let it live. 
> 
> I super appreciate all y'all's messages of support while I was gone for approximately a thousand years; I worked more than a hundred hours last week and all my joints are _furious_ with me, but I did make it through, and having your lovely messages was so so helpful.
> 
> I do have a super important question for you all, though!! So I already have the next installment of this larger story planned out, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna give myself a little break and work on other stuff for a little while before I get started on actually _writing_ the damn thing. I have two options for what I can do for the epilogue, which is what I need your input on. Would you rather have an epilogue that doesn't have any hints about the plot for the next part (which I could totally do!) or have a little more clear picture of where the next part will be going? I don't wanna leave you guys on a cliffhanger for a month or two if it'll cause you some anguish or something, but I also,,,kinda do want to do that. Let me know ur opinions!!!
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes**
> 
>   * The title of this chapter comes from _Wonderful Christmastime_ by Paul McCartney. I listened to _so much_ old Christmas while I wrote this chapter, which annoyed literally every other human being who shared space with me while I was writing. YIKES.
>   * The debate about sweet vs savory grits is SUCH A SERIOUS THING, y'all. I have known people to get into, like, serious arguments about it. (By people, I mean my boyfriend and I, tbh)
>   * If any of you haven't seen [this vine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6gBu2Zd7Bc), (let me see what you have! "A knife!!!") PLEASE (a) watch it, it's so so good and (b) imagine Max running around with a knife like that OH MY GOD
>   * Pig calling is the funniest shit I have ever seen in my life. [Here's a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRMPQg43wgk) of what it sounds like in real life, and [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Oa29ZbpyW8) a content-aware scale version that literally makes me pee my pants with laughter. You're welcome. 
> 

> 
> **In the next installment: it's spring break (or valentine's day), babies!!!!!!!!**


	17. vacation (how do we get away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Billy and Steve go on a very romantic, violence-and-cowpunk-filled Valentine's date._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI BABES!
> 
> Sorry this chapter took me LITERALLY MORE THAN A MONTH. I, uh, absolutely didn't mean for it to, but I had such a hard time finding what I wanted to say and do with this chapter until, like, last week, so. 
> 
> Also, there's PORN AHEAD YALL, fair warning. if you're not looking for that, well, uh, this chapter isn't particularly vital to the plot? (This chapter is, embarrassingly, mostly my first real attempt at decent porn, so.)
> 
> More notes at the end!!

“I just don’t understand why you won’t let me help you train Max,” Billy complains from the side of the backyard rink; Steve’d put it up the day after the big Christmas party so he and Max could get in some decent practice, ignoring his dad’s bitching about how they’re gonna have to resod the lawn again this year, as if they haven’t had to resod it every year since Steve learned to skate at age four. 

Backyard rinks are a _tradition_ , even if it does get a little too hot this far south to keep it from turning to slush on sunny days sometimes, and the rink in Hawkins is too busy for Steve to get enough time to teach Max, really. When it isn’t taken up by one of the local teams for practice or games, it’s open for free skate; the look on Max’s face when Steve’d suggested four-thirty am training sessions, the only time the rink isn’t occupied, had been one of the funniest parts of the Christmas party. 

“...I’m officially cleared for light exercise, jogging and light weights and shit, I mean I’m pretty sure I could fit into your skates, it wouldn’t be a big deal,” Billy goes on; Steve half-tunes him out, trying to focus on getting the ice even; when Billy’s voice gets all grumpy like he knows Steve’s ignoring him, Steve finally looks over, mostly happy with the rink.

“ _Because,_ shug, you’re not cleared for any more _head injuries,_ and Max is still struggling with her stops, the last fucking thing either of us need is for you to get another concussion and have to be limited to jogging for another _two months,_ idiot.” Billy smiles over at him with the predatory look he’s been giving Steve for, like, _two weeks_ , ever since Doc Menard had cleared him for jogging. The lecture that Steve had been _in the room for_ about not pushing himself too hard or exerting too much effort hadn’t made much of an impact on Billy, apparently.

“Plus,” Steve adds, scraping smooth a little peak in the ice from where Max and Dustin filled it too quickly last night, “You don’t even know how to train her, you’ve never even _played hockey_.”

“I’ve been watching the two of you for _a month and a half,_ I know she needs to learn how to take a damn hit, especially if she’s gonna play on the mixed-gender team, the boys go for the girls like _crazy_.” Billy has a point, honestly, but Steve’s been, like, _counting the days_ waiting for Billy to be fully cleared; he’s got fucking _plans_ for Valentine’s, damn it, and he’s not above reminding Billy.

“B, honey,” Steve sighs, shuffling over to the boards where Billy’s judging Steve’s resurfacing job, “I want you to be _a hundred percent_ for our date Saturday, and I know you’re almost there, yeah? If I don’t get to do all the things I’ve been waiting to do since, like, _December,_ I’m gonna be _so_ upset.”

Billy’s eyes darken, and he grabs for Steve’s jacket collar, reels him in for a bruising kiss. His fingers are little spots of cold where he has one hand curled around the back of Steve’s neck, and his mouth is hot where he’s licking at Steve’s lips, lush like some tropical paradise or something. He burns like _fire_ , like he’s going to melt slow and easy and melt Steve right alongside him.

Steve’s not _stupid,_ he knows Billy’s been jerking off for _at least_ three weeks, and he keeps calling Steve right after (or, if Steve’s especially lucky and there's no one home at the cabin, _during_ ) to complain about when Steve’s gonna feel ready to become an active participant in Billy’s sex life. Steve _gets it,_ has been fighting the urge to ignore all the warning bells in his head and jump Billy every time the two of them are alone for what feels like _years,_ but Patti had called him up about a month ago and explained in _explicit detail_ just how fucked up Billy could be if they didn’t follow doctors’ orders, probably at Axel’s request. He and Billy are thick as fucking thieves now, constantly on the phone complaining about being _adults with jobs_ and gossiping about everyone they both know. 

“Besides,” Steve goes on when Billy lets him go, gasping for air and words, “You don’t know how to skate.”

“Well, yeah, I guess that’s true,” Billy agrees, panting a little himself. “Guess I’ll just have to hover and harass Max about her crossovers from the sidelines.” He sounds a little put upon, but, like, Steve has a chair set up for him piled with blankets right next to the boards, so it’s not like he’s going to be cold while he watches practice or anything.

“HAHA,” Max screeches as she bumps out to the rink on her skate guards, “I BEAT DUSTIN!” She looks so damn cute in all her gear, her gloves a little big and her pads making her look kind of like a kid in her dad’s clothes or something, but she’s got that terrifying, feral child look on her face. Dustin comes waddling out after her, still shoving his helmet on.

“That’s not FAIR, she hid my gloves,” he complains, waggling his glove in annoyance. “I don’t think I should have to--”

“Dustin, I _know_ you’ve played hockey before, pranks are part of hockey, get over it. You’re sweeping after training, bud.” Steve shares a look with Billy while Dustin bitches. Steve’s not into, like, _mean_ pranks, but, like, hiding somebody’s gloves, cutting their laces? Sure, whatever, that’s _expected_ in hockey, at least a little bit. 

Max is shaping up to be, like, _really good_ at hockey, too, and if she does play on the mixed team, she’s _absolutely_ gonna be a target. Steve’s been trying to convince himself that helping her learn what’s a normal prank and what she needs to, like, _tell somebody about_ is gonna keep her safer. If he’s really more worried about Billy going postal on some shitty thirteen year old boy, well, Billy doesn’t have to know that. Besides, Dustin’s pranking skills are weak, even if he is a hell of a lot better than Steve is at taking Max’s checks gracefully. 

“Okay, stretch out, you numbnuts,” Steve announces, blowing sharp on the whistle Billy got him as a joke. Honestly, it helps the kids remember he’s, like, an authority, while they’re practicing, at least. 

He takes them through a full practice, has them run warmups and then works their forward-backward transitions, sets up an obstacle course for puck handling. Max is already surprisingly good at stickhandling, probably because she can practice that at her house, but skateboarding hasn’t exactly given her the stamina she needs for hockey.

“Babe,” Billy yells from the sidelines, voice a little hoarse from where he’s been yelling encouragement (read: gentle insults) at the kids for an hour.

“What?” Steve asks, skating over to where Billy’s all curled up under his mountain of quilts. He sprays Billy with the snow from his stop; Billy gets all grumpy like he always does, but he can’t even feel it, probably, the titty baby.

“Do some checking drills, I know Max is gonna beat the shit outta Dustin but she’s gotta learn to take a hit one way or another,” Billy says, and that’s not unfair. Plus, they both like to try to knock each other over and smear each other into the boards. So why the hell not, he’ll just explain to Mrs. Henderson when he drops Dustin off; she worries about the bruises.

“Alright, gremlins,” he yells, and they straighten up in unison. Dustin lets Max’s pass float past his stick, which is bad puck handling but, like, whatever, it’s not a _huge_ deal. “Bring me your sticks, we’re gonna do checking drills. Max, remember to keep your hits legal and _pull your fucking checks a little_. Dustin, try to get her off her feet, but don’t be an asshole, yeah?” 

This is definitely one of Max’s favorite parts, and Dustin always looks a little terrified (understandably) at her excitement. She gets him good a couple times, but he’s finally annoyed enough by it to start shoving her back, gets her on her ass a few times too. She complains _every time,_ much to everyone’s annoyance.

“Hey, _shithead,_ ” Billy yells across the ice, “take a hit like a big kid! The boys you’re playing against won’t give one single solitary shit how much it hurts, you know that much.”

Max grumbles swear words just loud enough for Billy to hear from his vantage across the ice, but she takes the next hit like a champ, gets up off the ice so fast she gets Dustin down while he’s still recovering his balance.

“There ya go, kid,” Billy yells, pride in his voice. “Kick the other kids' asses!”

“Please don’t kick my ass!” Dustin yelps, but she kinda does anyways. It’s funny as hell, and Steve calls it after a few more good checks; they’re both gonna be _covered_ in bruises by school tomorrow morning. 

Max is proud of the bruises, shows ‘em off to Clem and Lucas at school when she doesn’t have to take clothes off to display them. Lucas shows a surprisingly appropriate reaction to them when he’s within earshot of Max, but Steve can tell puberty’s hitting him hard by the dreamy way he can’t stop talking about them when it’s just Steve and Lucas and sometimes Dustin. It’s kinda gross, thinking about the kids, like, _having libidos,_ but Steve knows Billy’s given Max about six different talks about safe sex, and Steve’s said what little he can think to say without sounding like an idiot to the boys, so they’re _probably_ all gonna be okay.

“Alright, assholes, get the pucks and shit, you’re done. Max, even though you don’t have to sweep the ice smooth you do still have to help flood the rink,” Steve’s already halfway off the ice, pulling on his skate guards and digging through the blankets to warm his frozen fingers on Billy’s warm neck. 

“ _Hey,_ asshole!” Billy cries, slapping at Steve’s hands. “Fuckin’ _quit,_ you’ll have the kids doing it to me next, _shit_.” Max and Dustin both waggle their fingers in Billy’s direction like a threat, laugh when he flinches back a little.

“I can’t believe your weakness is COLD HANDS!” Dustin shrieks, and Billy tries to unwind himself from the blankets enough to go after Dustin.

“It ISN’T, you idiot,” Max laughs, “It’s _Ste-e-eve._ ” Billy untangles himself enough to stand up and goes running at her, blankets streaming behind him; she’s distracted enough with laughing at him and keeping her skates under her on the wet ice that he’s able to get her in a half-nelson and give her a noogie.

“Alright, _children,_ let’s go, I’m cold and we have to get y’all home for dinner,” Steve calls from where he’s already on the bench by the back door, unlacing his skates. Billy puts his gross, Max-sweaty hands on Steve’s neck in retaliation, smiles wide at him. 

“Yessir, _coach,_ sir,” Billy leers, which, _gross._

“Gross, Billy,” Steve grumbles, rolls his eyes. “You excited for our date Saturday?”

“Yeah, although if I don’t get a clean bill of health from the doctor beforehand, I’m gonna be a little _less_ excited,” Billy answers, looking more innocent than he has a right to be. The kids have all learned to tune the two of them out any time medical stuff comes up, which is only about half as embarrassing as Steve figures it should be. 

“LUCAS AND I,” Max interjects, throwing herself onto the bench to change back into her boots, “are going to the movies, Mom’s gonna take me, so the two of you can have your gross _date._ ”

“Dustin, you got a date for the big V-Day?” Billy asks, as if he doesn’t know already.

“NO, asshole, and you know it. My mom said we could get Chinese and rent Ghostbusters and Will’s coming over to spend the night, so it’s not like it’s gonna be a bad time anyways,” Dustin lectures, still smarting about Clem’s polite letdown.

She’d broken up with him (if it could even be called that--they mostly just held hands and hung out at the arcade, but _young love_ or whatever) two weeks ago, said she really wanted to be friends and, apparently, meant it; Dustin’s been asking for advice about _how to be cool around a girl that broke your heart, since_ you _would know,_ which is only a little bit painful, really. Billy said the other day that Max had threatened to kick Dustin’s ass if he ran off one of her few girl friends, so all the guys have been weirdly accommodating to Clem at lunch and stuff, apparently. There’s worse things for the guys than to have girls around to, like, be good examples or whatever, though, even if Clem and Max are in this phase where they’re just as gross as the boys, if not grosser.

 

Billy gets his clean bill of health on Thursday and it’s almost like the watery winter sun’s shining brighter when he leaves Dr. Sanders’ office, blowing a joking kiss at her seventy-five-year-old receptionist on his way out the door. 

"Thank you, Miss Laura, Happy Valentine's!" He feels, like, stupidly chipper, like he's some Stepford Wife or something, but he's _officially_ allowed to have sex with his boyfriend now, so he figures he has the right to be obnoxious.

“Bye, hon, have a--” she calls back, cut off by the door closing. 

_I’m having a good time, having a good time, I don’t plan to stop at all,_ Billy sings along with Freddie Mercury on the way to the shop for his shift. It’s fucking freezing out, as goddamn usual in Indiana, but the sun’s doing it’s goddamndest to shine today, like even it knows there’s something to celebrate. When he gets to the shop, he's surprised to see Max sitting in the front office.

“Hey, kiddo, I thought you were at AV club,” Billy half-asks, but the raincloud on her face says pretty clearly that _something_ happened at school today. “Uh, whatcha doing here?”

“Helping Hutch,” she grumps at him. “I’m reading my book, leave me alone.” 

“Alright, Mad Max, you want me to take you home later?”

“I’m going to your house for dinner, I already called and asked Mom,” she says, then opens up her book and shoves her pointy, pissed-off little face in it. He heads into the back instead of poking the angry bear, pulls on his coveralls.

“Look who’s finally decided to get back to work,” Hutch teases, smile wide as he comes over to give Billy a back-thumping hug. “Glad Maxine’s up there taking your old job, huh?”

Billy’s been dealing with the mess of accounting and organization and all the other bullshit Hutch has been letting slip away from him for the past couple years; he doesn’t really _like it,_ but he’s good at matching receipts and order forms and money logs, so it had kept him from going insane, sitting up at the front desk like a lump on a log.

“Yeah, although her math grades aren’t good enough that I’d trust her as your CPA,” Billy jokes. “What are we working on today?”

“Come help me get this tie-rod out, it’s being stubborn,” Hutch says, jerking his head at a shit-brown Pinto. They’re forearm deep in the undercarriage when Hutch decides to clue Billy in on what he knows about Max. 

He’s the gossipiest motherfucker in this town, honestly, and Billy’s pretty sure he only closes for lunch so he can go over to the diner and hear all the town gossip he doesn’t hear at the shop from Sheila, the head waitress. She’s got that fucking face that invites you to tell her all your secrets, and the last time Billy and Steve had brought the kids there, she’d winked over at Billy when he’d paid for everybody like she __knew somehow that Steve’s free hand was curled in Billy’s under the table.

“So that sister’a yours came in steaming mad,” Hutch offers, grunting as something shifts on his end. “When I asked her what was wrong, she yelled _why are guys so much less evolved than girls!_ so loud that it shook up Mrs. Anderson, and you know she turns her hearing aids off when she goes out, too.”

“Yikes,” Billy says, huffing out a breath as the tie-rod finally comes free. “Wonder if it was Lucas or Dustin? Maybe Mike, but she probably woulda come in yelling about __the goddamn Wheelers if it was him.”

“ _Yikes_ indeed,” Hutch agrees, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a mostly-clean shop rag. “I’d just be, ah, _real sympathetic,_ when you take her home later.”

“Ugh,” Billy groans, “I don’t even wanna _think about_ the trip home later. Just put me to work, old man.”

It’s nice, getting sweaty and lifting stuff and using his body like he’s used to. There are little twinges of pain here and there, from the left middle finger that’s been broken so many times it doesn’t bend right anymore and the muscles in his forearm, weak from disuse while the cast was on. His head doesn’t hurt, though, and the pain is, weirdly, a reminder of how _bad_ he’d felt before, how much better he is now. Work almost feels like one of the long, punishing lift sessions he’d done before, trying to work out his anger with Neil and Max and _Indiana,_ pushing his body to its limits just to have control over _something_. By quitting time at five-thirty, he’s soaked with sweat, liberally smudged with engine grease and motor oil, and even happier than he’d been leaving the doctor’s office. 

“Okay, Max, you gonna tell me what’s wrong or am I gonna have to annoy it out of you?” he asks once they’re settled in the car. “Because if you don’t tell me, I’ll get Steve to ask Dustin, you know he tells Steve everything.” 

“He’s an _asshole,_ ” Max snaps, “He and the rest of the boys in the stupid fucking _Party._ ” 

“What did they do, pull your pigtails?” He knows he’s treading a fine line, knows she’s just as likely to haul off and punch him as she is to tell him what happened. She does both, unsurprisingly, hits his shoulder hard before she opens her mouth, takes a breath like she’s gonna spill, pauses like she doesn’t know what to say.

“They were making stupid jokes about how Melanie Stevens is getting tits now and how _this summer she’s gonna be the star of the pool_ and _I_ said that that was a _shitty fucking thing to say_ , she’s all awkward about them because she doesn’t have any older sisters or anything to talk about it with and her mom said it’s _normal_ for the boys to snap her bra straps and stuff and that’s just _not fucking fair,_ like, she can’t help it if her fucking tits start growing, shit, and then Dustin asked if I was on my period because I was mad and they all looked at me like I was gonna say _yeah, I’m on my period and that’s why I’m mad you guys are being gross about Melanie,_ all of them, even _Lucas!_ ”

Billy can see her lower lip wobbling, even though she’s trying to hide it in the collar of her coat. He passes her a McDonald’s napkin from his center console, digs deeper past all the tapes to find the fun-size Snickers he saw the other day that’s _probably_ from this most recent Halloween.

“You want some chocolate?” he asks, processing what she’s said. She nods all miserable and he passes it over. Somehow, he manages to hide his grimace at the way she eats it in one bite, one cheek puffing with nougat. 

“So, are you pissed that they were talking about Melanie instead of you?” he asks, and she punches him in the shoulder again. _Jesus,_ she’s getting an arm on her from all the dryland training Steve’s been making her do.

“No, fuckface,” she scoffs through her mouthful of chocolate (gross). “They were just being assholes.”

“I know for a fact that you think it’s funny when they do that, normally,” Billy pushes back, just a little. He wouldn’t be surprised if she bats for both teams, really, with the way she gets all huffy about pretty girls sometimes; there’s no way it’s _just_ because she’s jealous, especially not with the way her voice goes all dreamy when she starts talking about Jessica B’s freckles or Samantha’s eyes. 

“YEAH,” she wails, looking like she’s about to burst into tears again, “But I don’t want them all to notice that _I’m_ getting tits. Like, _Lucas,_ okay, yeah, that’s fine, but, like, what if they start trying to pop _my_ bra strap?” 

“Oh,” Billy says, remembering vaguely how last month, right around the same time as now, she’d called Steve and said her stomach hurt too bad to practice. She’d been weirdly weepy then too, all up in arms about animal rights and a bunch of shit she doesn’t usually care about.

“Hey, Max,” he starts, awkward as hell, “I don’t mean to make you feel like a crazy person or anything, like, that was a shitty thing for them to do, for sure, they shouldn’t talk about her like she’s some piece of meat or something, but, uh... _are you?_ On, uh, on your period, I mean.” He can feel the steam coming off her, and he keeps talking before she explodes on him.

“I just, I mean--sometimes your period can make you feel weird, more emotional and stuff. It, uh, doesn’t mean what you’re feeling isn’t real, just that how you feel about, uh, those feelings might be a little more, uh, _intense_ than they normally would be,” he finishes, trying to remember what he’d accidentally overheard Joyce saying to El a few weeks ago about girl stuff.

“It’s still a shitty thing for them to say, even if I _am_ on my period,” she huffs after a minute of thinking about it. “Like, maybe I am, but it’s still not cool for them to talk about people like that, you know?”

“I know, kid, I’m sorry. I bet Lucas is bummed that he hurt your feelings, and if he doesn’t try to call you and apologize later _I’ll kick his ass myself,_ ” he peacocks, a mockery of his former, more angry self, and she laughs a little, rolls her eyes at him.

“You can’t,” she protests, “he has to take me on a super nice Valentine’s date on Saturday to make up for it.” he laughs, musses her hair with his free hand.

“Okay, kid, let’s go some carbs in you. You all crampy or whatever? I bet Hopper has a hot water bottle somewhere,” he offers, putting the car in park. She throws her arms around his waist in a bear hug before they even make it to the door, and he feels a tiny ember of pride flare bright in his chest.

 _God,_ he’s so glad Steve doesn’t go all Valkyrie on him once a month. Steve’s quietly pleased flirting on the phone when Billy calls to give him the good news about his concussion lights Billy’s skin on fire a little, makes him all the more excited for their date on Saturday, and even the horrifying thought of El and Max’s periods eventually syncing up doesn’t scare him too badly.

 

Steve’s running late to pick Billy up, and it’s all his mom’s fault. She usually calls on the major holidays, sends him some fancy gift from wherever she and his dad are at the time ( _Paree, city of luvvv,_ she’d drawled on the phone). When she’d called, right as he was walking out the door to go get Billy, he hadn’t known how to say _look, Ma, I’ve got a date I’m gonna be late for_ without starting the next Spanish Inquisition, so he’d had to listen to her twitter on about how nice the wine is in France, how she's getting a couple cases shipped back to Indiana and how he needs to make sure to put it all in the wine cellar when it arrives for like _fifteen minutes straight_. 

He speeds all the way to the cabin, and Billy’s slouching around all sad in the designated smoking area when he pulls in, as if Steve would _ever_ stand him up if he could help it. 

“Hi, shug,” he calls, rolling down his window. “Wanna ride?” It’s, like, eleven AM, but they still have to get to Fort Wayne and find somewhere to have lunch before the game. 

“Well, _Ah suppose,_ ” Billy yells back, affecting a _horrible_ overexaggerated Southern accent. He flicks his cigarette into the underbrush and grinds out the cherry under his boot, lopes through the leaf litter and week-old snow to the passenger side. “Since my __main beau was late to pick me up, I’ll have to settle for a deviant young man like you instead.” He curls into the car, leans across the center console to kiss Steve with cold lips and menthol breath after he throws his backpack in the backseat next to Steve's duffle.

“Sorry, B, my mom called right as I was leaving and you know she can talk the paint off a door,” Steve apologizes, grimacing. “She says hi, by the way.”

“Oh, _does she now,_ ” Billy leers, waggling his eyebrows.

“Gross.” Steve smacks him on the shoulder, gentle.

“So, what’s this mystery date, then, princess?’ Billy asks. “I’ve been up Dustin’s ass about it for, like, _two weeks_ and he hasn’t said anything, how the _hell_ did you get him to keep his big mouth shut?” Billy’s grinning, reaching out for Steve’s free hand.

“Well, the trick to get Dustin to keep a secret is that you just __don’t tell him,” Steve laughs, and Billy’s still all smiles. “We’re going to Fort Wayne to see a hockey game and then we're gong to some punk show at the Brass Rail tonight, I asked Kali about the band and she said you’d like it.”

“God, what _is it_ with you and Max trying to get me to like a sport that only Canadians and near-Canadians play and enjoy?” Billy complains, a token protest for the sake of his own self-image. Steve rolls his eyes, turns onto the main road. 

“Whatever,” Steve says, “Aside from the fact that a lot of hockey is just organized violence, _which I know you like_ , you and Hop watch the Pens lose, like, _all the damn time_. I thought about getting you a Lemieux jersey for Valentine’s since you’d probably want _him_ to be your Valentine instead of me, but maybe I’ll get you one for your birthday, instead.” 

“You’re the only Valentine I want this year,” Billy answers, this teasing tone in his voice that doesn’t quite cover up the honesty he’s trying to hide. “But for real, I’m super excited, that sounds awesome. You want my, uh, your gift? The one I made you, I mean.” 

He fumbles in his pocket for something small, wrapped in poinsettia-and-christmas tree wrapping paper Steve remembers vaguely from Christmas. Steve lets go of Billy’s hand, tears open the paper as best he can one-handed. 

“Oh, _hell yeah,_ ” Steve half-yells, excited. ‘Another mixtape where you show me all your feelings for me? Put it in.” Billy makes a gross face, flicks his tongue out like he’s lapping up--well, _something_ \--and Steve marvels yet again at how even when Billy’s being disgusting, Steve’s still hopelessly into him, wants to pull him in close and never let go.

 _I’m so hot for her, I’m so hot for her, I’m so hot for her and she’s so cold,_ Mick Jagger yowls, and Steve smacks at Billy’s shoulder as best he can with Billy fucking _dying_ of laughter.

“You _asshole,_ ” Steve complains, and Billy laughs some more. “What the _fuck_ kinda Valentine mixtape is this?”

“I’ve been trying to get you to fuck around with me for _weeks,_ ” Billy wheezes once he gets enough breath back, “And you don’t think I’m gonna make my misery clear _somehow?_ ”

Steve thinks about that for a second, all the way through _She’s So Cold_ and into KC and the Sunshine Band’s __Give It Up, which Billy loses his shit about also, and finally Steve starts laughing, too, at the sheer absurdity of Billy’s overdramatic _bullshit_. 

“Most of it is nice,” Billy gasps when they’ve finally calmed down, “I promise, the rest of it’s all mushy and shit.” The affection clear in his voice is the only reason Steve doesn’t run them off the highway into a tree, just to spite Billy. 

The tape _does_ get more mushy; Billy performs _Kiss_ with all the drama he’s got in him (which, like Max, is _a lot_ ) and belts out _makes me horny_ instead of _makes me party_ in his best David Bowie impression. They’re pulling into the Komets’ rink when Dolly starts, _if I should stay_ ; Steve tears up a little, and Billy turns bright red when Steve parks the car and is almost immediately over the center console, kissing Billy senseless.

“I love it, asshole,” Steve murmurs when he pulls away, “Now put on your sweater and let’s go.” Steve pulls on the Komets’ jersey he’d bought himself last season over his own sweater. The Komets’ logo looks like nothing so much as a buzzsaw blade, really, but when Billy says so, not particularly politely either, Steve shoves him a little, scoffs, because you always gotta defend your local team’s honor, right? 

The game is fucking _fun_ ; the minor league players fight way more than the NHL guys do, and Billy really gets into it, says watching hockey live is infinitely better than watching it on TV. He’s right, and now Steve’s pretty sure he’s gonna have to teach Billy ball hockey this summer, too; it’s getting a bit too warm for an outdoor rink already, this far south, and he’s gonna have to switch the kids to dryland practices soon, make Billy work on their conditioning while he works on prepping for the police academy exam he’s taking this summer instead. 

The Komets ( _buzzsaws,_ Billy keeps leaning over to whisper in Steve’s ear; Steve keeps almost spitting his hot cocoa all over the people in front of them) lose, but that’s not exactly surprising. It seems like the owner and GM are more focused on having a tough team than they are a good one. It’s probably good for viewership, at least, given how excited everybody in the mostly-full stands gets during all _four_ fights in the game.

They grab dinner at some mediocre burger joint when they can’t get a table at any of the nice restaurants; Steve feels like an idiot for not getting reservations, but Billy just slurps on his strawberry milkshake, says he’s having the best date of his life, and he even sounds like he, like, _means it._

The hotel, when they pull up to check in and drop off their little bit of stuff, is _maybe_ a little too nice for two teenage boys. The lobby is all marble and stuff, and the bellhop gives Steve the stink-eye when they walk in. The lady at the front desk, the hostess or whatever, looks equally suspicious until Steve passes her his for emergencies only AmEx and she doubletakes.

“Uh, sir, I’m sure you understand, but I will need to verify that this is your card before I can check you in,” she says, suddenly much more polite. “It’s not that I don’t believe it’s yours, but, well--”

“Here’s my license,” Steve interrupts, only a little bit embarrassed. “Do I need to go get my passport from the car, or, uh, are we good?” She looks over his ID really close, and he’s worried he’s gonna have to, like, _call his mom for permission_ or something else horrifying when she hands it back, smiles, passes over two room keys.

“You’re on the top floor, boys, and whenever you’re ready tomorrow morning you can call down to room service and we’ll bring your breakfast up, complementary,” she says; the smile on her face is cracking a little, clearly a little bit of a struggle for her to hold while she’s looking at the two of them, Steve in a sweater and a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee and Billy with his shirt halfway open and a dangerous smirk broad on his face. 

“Thank you so much,” Steve says, grabbing all the stuff from her hands and smiling as politely as he can. 

“Remember you’re responsible for any damages, boys,” she sing-songs, sounding like Mrs. Wheeler when Steve had been over to see Nancy and her bedroom door had, uh, _happened_ to be closed. 

“Oh, we’d never,” Billy says over his shoulder. He winks back at her, turns toward the elevator doors with a little more swing in his hips than he usually has. Steve follows, hearing her gasp a little at the sinful way Billy’s body moves. 

“Have a good night,” she calls as they get into the elevator, her voice about an octave higher. Jesus _Christ,_ Billy’s a danger to society sometimes.

“You’re a menace, you know that?” Steve teases once the elevator door closes. “Like, you know you don’t have to seduce _every_ middle aged woman you come across, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy waves him off. “Who says I was doing it for her? I gotta keep you interested somehow.”

“You’re plenty _interesting,_ ” Steve says, crowding into Billy’s space a little. Billy opens his mouth to reply, or maybe reel Steve in for the hot, lush kind of kiss that gives Steve, like, _heart palpitations_ , but the elevator dings and the doors slide open before he can. 

The view in the room is nice enough; they’re in Fort Wayne, not, like, anywhere _fancy_ , but Steve realizes after a second that Billy maybe hasn’t even been up this high in a building before, or at least he hasn’t been since they moved from Cali.

“I’m gonna go, uh, fix my hair,” Steve says after he watches Billy smush his face into the window to get the best view he can for a beat too long, face flushing as he realizes how stupid he sounds. He’s suddenly fucking _nervous,_ hands a little shaky as he tries to fight his flyaways.

He has KY jelly and some condoms in one of the pockets of his duffle bag, shoved underneath an extra t-shirt, but, like, even if they don’t use them Steve isn’t gonna be _mad_ or anything. They haven’t gotten farther than making out in the two months or so since they started dating, and, like, it’s kind of funny really, how much Steve’s been hyping this up.

He feels almost like he did before he and Nancy had had sex for the first time; she’d made him wait for it too, made sure he wasn’t just an asshole trying to take her virginity or whatever, and he remembers how shaky he’d felt taking off her clothes, how weird the butterflies in his stomach had been when he’d moved in to eat her out. It had been great, even that first time when he’d come too fast and she’d scratched his back bloody and there’d been all the awkward noises nobody had told him to expect during sex. 

With Billy, he feels just as-- _fragile,_ maybe, like one little touch could shatter him. He wants Billy _bad_ , like, Steve keeps having to wash his own _sheets_ kind of bad, but what if it’s not good, what if Billy’s not impressed by the shadows of Steve’s ribs under his grubworm-pale skin and the softness in his abs, what if Steve makes an ass of himself and they have to break up and everything goes to shit because Steve can’t _keep his fucking cool?_

Steve’s just standing there, holding a can of hairspray loosely in one hand and freaking out and staring at his own reflection like a dumbass when Billy comes in, wraps himself around Steve’s back. 

“You almost ready?” Billy asks, breath hot on Steve’s neck like he’s some kind of apex predator, some big cat who could rip Steve’s throat out with one easy motion. It sends chills down Steve’s spine, thinking about how hot Billy is when he’s all _possessive_ and shit. 

“Ye--yeah,” Steve whispers, voice hoarse. “Just, uh, just thinking. What time is it?”

Billy pulls away from him, leans over closer to the mirror and tries to get his bangs to curl just right; he makes eye contact with Steve in the mirror, smiles sweet at him. 

“Don’t think too hard, princess--” Billy starts, and Steve digs an elbow into his side. “Ow, alright, alright, sorry, baby, that was shitty, you’re right.” 

“It’s almost nine, though, we should probably get going,” he adds as an afterthought. “What time does the show start?”

“Nine,” Steve says all stupid because he’s suddenly fucking _horny_ , fighting the urge to put his hands in Billy’s back pockets. His ass looks _great_ , especially while he’s bent over the bathroom countertop. like he is right now

“Alright, there, Narcissus, let’s go,” Steve jokes, reaching out to tug on his belt loop, and Billy looks at him half-outraged. Dustin’s taken to calling Billy that both behind his back and to his face, and it’s the funniest shit, really, seeing Billy’s face go from _how dare you_ to _I’m impressed with your myth knowledge_ and back again.

“Oh, shit,” Billy says when they’re halfway out the door, “I forgot, hold on.” He backtracks long enough to rummage around in his backpack, shove whatever he’s got in his hand into his jacket pocket all secretive. It’s finally warm enough now that Billy can wear his leather jacket again, which only drives Steve crazy when he thinks about it, which is, unfortunately, most of the time Billy’s wearing the damn thing.

“What’d you forget?” Steve asks on the way to the elevator, yawning a little. He’d gotten so used to sharing a bed with Billy that he’s slept like shit the last few weeks, since Billy didn’t hurt too bad to climb up the ladder to his loft and they’d moved all his shit back to the cabin.

“Just some... _party favors_ ,” Billy says, voice somewhere between the angelic tone he uses with middle-aged women and the half-growling one he uses when he’s trying to drive Steve crazy. 

“If it’s weed, you’re responsible for swallowing the joint if we get stopped,” Steve fake-complains; he’s _stoked,_ to steal a Max word, to go get stoned and hear some music turned up too loud and dance and shit with Billy all close in a crowd of people who don’t know them. 

They argue half-seriously about it all the way to the venue, except for the two and a half minutes or so that _Wouldn’t It Be Nice_ plays and Steve is speechless because he _knows_ what the song means to Billy. He thinks briefly that he’s gonna just, like, die of happiness or something else stupid. 

The directions Steve’d written down from the hotel to the venue are fucking __confusing, and Fort Wayne’s big enough that they _absolutely_ piss off some other drivers trying to get in the right lanes and shit, but eventually Billy sees a group of punk kids on the street and they basically follow them until Billy spots the bar’s sign. Finding parking is a goddamn _nightmare,_ but the lot they do find is secluded enough that they share one of the blunts Billy brought and make out a little, pressed up against the side of the Beemer. They pull away from each other finally, both breathing a little heavy, and start wandering in the general direction (or what Billy’s pretty sure is the general direction) of the show.

“Hey, dudes, you comin’ to see the Meat Puppets show?” some punk girl yells from up the street, where she and a few other girls are perched on a bus stop bench, passing a flask around. 

“Yeah, you know where you’re going?” Billy shouts back. She and all the other girls cut up a little, clearly a little tipsy, but most of them nod yes, so Steve lets Billy drag him across the street to where they are. 

“You guys don’t look like you’re _from 'round here_ ,” one of the girls says all innocent, blinking wide and slow like she’s imitating somebody from the middle of nowhere in the city for the first time. “How’d you hear about the Brass Rail, then?” 

One of the other girls, eyeliner thick and lips curled into the predatory smile Steve’s seen on Max’s face about a million times, eyes them up and down raises her eyebrows like she’s surprised that they’re here, too.

“Uh, Billy here, uh, he likes punk shi--I mean, punk music, and--” Steve can feel himself floundering, and the first girl is giggling a little, not mean but clearly amused.

“What he’s trying to say, ladies,” Billy cuts in, smooth as always, “Is that we’ve got a few friends who’re _way_ fuckin’ cooler than we are, and they recommended this place for a dat--uh, for a good weekend show.”

“Good enough for me,” the first girl shrugs, “But c’mon, let’s go before we miss the opener entirely. I’m Jenny, that’s Sarah and Becks is the one looking at you two like you’re an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Becky, of the dark eyeliner and terrifying smile, shoots a glare at Jenny, rolls her eyes as she slams down the last of whatever’s in their flask.

“It’s _Vex_ ,” she says all dramatic, “As in _what I do to my parents_. Thank you, Jenny, for that _stellar_ introduction.” 

“Oh, nice,” Steve says, means it mostly, “I’m Steve, and this is Billy. Actually, one of our friends’ name is Kali, after the goddess of death?”

“For real?” she asks, eyes flashing with interest; she pesters Steve with questions about Kali and how they know a couple Chicago punks when they’re just two hicks the whole way to the venue. There’s a line out front, and a dude who looks like he could probably rip Steve in half like that dude who came to their school last year to rip apart phone books and talk about how they shouldn’t do drugs. 

“ _Shit,_ babe,” he leans back to whisper in Billy’s ear, “I don’t have a fake, fuck.”

“Well, Kali’s early birthday gift makes a hell of a lot more sense to me now,” Billy laughs, pulling something out of his pocket. He hands it over to Steve, all casual, and in the light of the marquee Steve sees an Illinois driver’s license with his own face looking back at him; apparently he’s now STEVEN S THOMAS, who lives at 101 WEST A ST APT 2B in Chicago and was born in 1964. 

“She called last month and asked for photos of us, and I got a letter last week with these in it. All it said was HAVE A GOOD TIME, FUCKFACE! which is how I know it wasn’t, like, an imposter or something,” he explains. “Since I’m assuming you haven’t tried to get in anywhere underage before now, basically just be cool about it, don’t give it to him until he asks for it, we’ll be fine.”

There are visions of the two of them stuck in a jail cell waiting on Hopper to come bail them out swirling in Steve’s head, and he feels a little nauseous, the way he does when his dad asks about his college applications on the phone and he has to lie and say they’re all going great.

“IDs, please,” the bouncer says, yawning like he’s bored. Steve hands his over probably a little too quickly, but Billy’s cool as a cucumber.

“Chicago, huh?” the guy asks. “I lived out there for forever. City’s fuckin’ _expensive,_ ain’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s stupid expensive, ‘s why we moved out here. Haven’t gotten our IDs changed yet, I just hate fuckin’ with the DMV, you know how it goes,” Billy lies, puts his hand in his pocket so he can elbow Steve, remind him to look like it’s a normal day and he gets carded all the time.

“ _Fuck,_ yeah, when I had to get my tags renewed last month I was there for _three fuckin’ hours,_ Christ. Have a good show, guys,” he says, handing back their IDs and waving them inside. Steve can’t help but clutch at Billy’s hand once they’re in the darkness, his palms all sweaty with wasted adrenaline. 

“Wanna drink?” Billy leans in to yell; the opening band, some local punk kids with the volume turned up to twelve and two electric guitars playing a half-octave out of tune with each other, are right in the middle of their set. 

“Nah,” Steve yells back; he’s just the right level of stoned and, like, he isn’t counting his chickens before they hatch or whatever but if they _do_ have sex later he wants to be able to remember every last goddamn __second of it. “I’m good, B.”

Billy pulls him along towards the crowd, gathered around a mosh pit in front of the stage; he pushes Steve in front of him, which is a little silly given that Steve’s absolutely taller, but he’s not gonna complain, not when Billy’s using how close they are to hide the way his hand’s shoved in Steve’s back pocket. Steve’s got his head tipped back to rest on Billy’s shoulder, just letting the music wash over him, when someone smacks him on the arm.

“DO A SHOT WITH US,” Sarah hollers; she starts yanking on Steve’s sweater until he finally follows her over towards the bar, Billy trailing behind.

It’s slightly quieter over here; the bartender seems entirely unruffled by the noise or the swarm of people waiting to put their order in. When Vex threatens to _flash her tits to get some goddamn service, Christ,_ the guy finally looks their way, winks outrageously at her. 

“I mean, I can get youse guys drinks without seeing ‘em, but if you feel like sharing later…” he jokes. “What can I get you lovely ladies tonight?”

“Five...no, _six_ shots of tequila!” Jenny yells, “As long as you can drink one with us, cutie.” He’s not Steve’s type, a little skinnier than he probably should be and dressed like he’s going to a casual funeral later, but he can see why the girls like him, if their aesthetic is any hint.

“Well tequila okay?” he asks, lining up shot glasses on the sticky bar counter. 

“Yeah, perfect,” Jenny says. “You got a salt shaker back there? If I don’t get to lick salt off one of these two before the end of the night I’ll cry.” She pokes one thumb at Billy and the other in Steve's direction.

Steve’s eyes are drawn to Billy’s face like a magnet, and the heat he finds in Billy’s eyes is unsurprising; clearly, they’re both remembering the last time body shots had been on the menu.

The bartender hands over the salt shaker with a gentle reminder _not to fuckin’ break it, please,_ and Sarah leans in toward Steve a little, looks at him like _is this okay?_

“Go for it,” he says, probably a little too quiet, but she seems to hear him anyway; her tongue is hot on his throat for a second, and then he has to lean over before she shakes salt down the front of his sweater. She passes the salt to Jenny, who’s got her mouth on the bartender’s wrist already, and from there Vex licks a swath onto Billy’s collarbone. Billy wiggles his eyebrows at Steve like _don’t you wish this were you?_ and Steve does, _desperately._

“Cheers, bitches!” Jenny yells, clinking their shot glasses together; they down their shots and lick the salt off their respective partners, hiss in unison after they suck on their limes. 

“Your turn!” Vex chirps, suddenly a little happier. The bartender shrugs like _sure, why not lick salt off this hot girl_ and leans across the bar to lick Jenny’s wrist. Steve glances over at Billy; Vex pulls her hair away from her neck and he leans in to lick her, eyes burning into Steve’s so hot he’s glad it’s dark in the club and no one can see his blush.

“You wanna?” Sarah asks, sweeping her hair to one side, and Steve smiles in assent, turns on the charm just a little, leans down to get her skin under his tongue. He stares Billy down the whole time, licks his lips when he’s done as a tease; she tastes like alcohol and flowers, from her perfume, probably. Vex plucks Billy’s lime out of his hand, holds it between her teeth, and Billy glances over at Steve again, double-checking or something, before he clinks their glasses together with the bartender and they take their shots. 

The group of them all move toward the dance floor once the girls get themselves another round of drinks. Vex leads, yells _excuse me excuse me excuse me sorry_ the whole way to the middle of the crowd in a tone that makes it _pretty fucking clear_ that she isn’t sorry. Sarah waves Steve closer once they're mostly settled, leans in to whisper in his ear.

“You two are so cute,” she says, eyes bright with tequila. Steve panics a little, nervous that she’s gonna, like, _out them_ or something; she must see it on his face, because she leans in again, yells “It’s nice, this way Jenny and I don’t have to worry about any weirdos trying to feel us up.”

“What about Vex?” he asks, tipping his head in her direction; she’s jumping along to the rhythm of the band, smiling wide and predatory at all the guys around them.

“She _wants_ people to feel her up,” Sarah laughs, and Jenny giggles along like she’s right. “She’s been looking for a new sad boy to date lately.” 

The opener ends, _finally,_ and while they’re clearing the stage, something starts playing over the speakers that’s almost as loud, some guy yelling _I don’t wanna live to be thirty-three_ over a wall of guitar and drums. Billy knows the words, apparently, and he and Sarah yell the lyrics to each other, doing what Steve thinks could probably be called dancing.

There are a few earsplitting screeches of feedback while some roadie who’s clearly stoned out of his _gourd_ does a half-hearted soundcheck, but it isn’t that long before a bunch of kinda greasy-looking dudes file onto the stage and pick up their instruments.

“Hey, everybody,” the lead singer says into the mic, quieter than Steve would have thought. “We are Meat Puppets, and we’re here tonight to broaden your horizons, so, uh, first we’re gonna play you a song off our newest album, I wrote it about my kid. It’s called _Up on the Sun_.”

The crowd goes fucking wild, yelling and jumping up and down as they break into a song with a bouncy beat that almost sounds like it came off a Dolly album or something. Billy’s cool palm slides into his own, and Steve looks over to see Billy beaming, moving along with the music. They drop immediately into another song that sounds half-country after the first one, and Steve crowds into Billy’s space, wraps his arm around Billy’s shoulders and pulls him in close. 

The band is way more fun than Steve would’ve thought, honestly, and while they’re taking a quick break between sets Steve slips away from their little group to the merch table near the door. The stoned-as-hell roadie is at the table, balancing on two feet of his chair and bobbing his head with the music.

“Hey, bud,” he greets Steve, yawning. “You want somethin’?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, pointing. “Can I get a t-shirt in a, uh, a medium, and their latest record and two--no, three stickers.” 

“That’ll be thirty bucks, dude,” the guy says, putting everything into a plastic bag. Steve hands over his cash, and it only takes the dude about two minutes to figure out how to make change. He wades back into the crowd, bag in hand, and holds Billy’s sweaty hand for the rest of the show.

 

They share the other joint Billy’d brought with the girls on their way back to the car after the show ends; whatever weed Billy got last makes the tip of Steve’s nose itch when he gets stoned enough, and Vex accuses him of picking his nose _twice._ Both times, the other girls _lose their shit,_ laughing themselves half-sick and stumbling over each other. 

Vex has two phone numbers scribbled on her, one on the back of either hand, and she’s almost sober, ready to drive them home. Jenny’d gotten the bartender’s name and number scrawled on a bar napkin on the way out, along with a wink and a promise to get her into shows for free. Sarah had congratulated her, but the way her smile hadn’t reached her eyes reminded Steve a little of himself, right after he and Nance had, well, imploded.

“Be safe,” Steve calls as they part ways, and Vex and Jenny both flip him off without looking back as if to say _we can handle ourselves, thank you very much._

“You too, guys, have a good night!” Sarah yells back, waving. Her cheeks are flushed bright red with alcohol and cold.

Steve drifts in the car on the way home; Billy’s a lot better at driving a little stoned than Steve is. Billy puts his mixtape in and Mick Jagger yelps quietly _I’m so hot for her and she’s so cold_ and Steve is so happy he feels like he’s going to _overflow,_ like the world is a kaleidoscope and he’s looking out at all the beautiful things in it and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, no one else he’d rather be with.

They’re handsier than they probably should be in the lobby, waiting on the elevator, but it’s like 1 am and there’s no one here but the woman working at the front desk, who’s focused on the little portable TV set in front of her playing some black-and-white movie. Steve can’t keep his hands off Billy, radiating heat and smelling like sweat and leather and lavender, but he’s just sober enough to hug him from behind, something that could be excused, probably, rather than reel him in for a kiss like he wants to.

The elevator comes after what feels like forever, and Billy pulls Steve in, presses the button for the top floor and pushes his way into Steve’s space, peppers his face with kisses. They get so wrapped up in each other that they almost forget to get off the elevator when it stops, but they manage well enough. Billy’s so close and so warm and so good that it takes Steve a couple times to get the door open, fumbling with the key like an idiot.

Once they get into the room, Billy strips off his jacket, drops it on the ground, comes over to take the bag of merch from Steve’s loose grip and put it (and his keys) on the dresser. 

“Hi, baby,” he croons, and Steve--he’s _ready._ He can’t wait any fucking longer, unless Billy wants to, but, like, he might just _die_ if they can’t do _something._ He walks backwards towards the bed, pulls Billy down on top of him when his knees hit the bed and buckle, gets his cold fingers in Billy’s hair and pulls him down for a kiss. Steve’s the right kind of stoned, the kind of stoned where any touch makes his skin light up; he’s a little shivery with pleasure already and they haven’t even really started anything yet. 

“C’mere,” Billy sighs into his mouth after a while, pushes himself up off Steve and pawing at his sweater. “Take it off, fuck, I wanna touch you.” Steve huffs out a laugh, plucks at Billy’s shirt where it’s already mostly open.

“You too,” he murmurs before he reaches up to pull off his sweater. His jeans are getting a little too tight and his shoes are still on, but Billy’s sitting back on his haunches, unbuttoning his shirt, and Steve doesn’t really give a shit about his own comfort for a second, too focused on the way Billy’s medal glints in the dim light of the bedside lamp, on the golden glow of his skin and the light dusting of hair that trails down from his belly button. Steve’s mouth waters with the wanting. Billy’s hands are warm where they curve over his ribs, his thumbs a little rough with calluses from work as they rub over Steve’s nipples. He can’t keep himself from shivering, nerves and excitement and arousal overloading his senses. 

“So pretty for me, princess,” Billy says, voice full of gravelly want. The nickname makes Steve feel all _squirmy_ ; he probably shouldn’t be as turned on as he is by it, should probably be embarrassed or something, but it doesn’t really seem like it matters with Billy looking at him like that, like he wants to eat Steve up or hold him down or, or--Steve doesn’t even _know_ anymore.

“Mmmm, come back here,” Steve demands, hands gliding over Billy’s back to pull him down. They get lost in each other for a while, skin on skin and hands roaming, until Billy pulls away and hisses a little. 

“My, uh, I’m a little uncomfortable, do you mind if I…?” he asks, gesturing towards his fly.

“Yes, yes, good idea,” Steve agrees, and Billy rolls away, stands up to pull off his boots and jeans. He’s _gorgeous_ , his muscles rippling under his skin like he’s the lead in one of those awful romance novels Nancy’s mom loves, and Steve gets distracted from getting his own jeans off, just looking. Billy looks like a fucking _statue,_ like one of those Greek athletes has come to life and shed its veneer of marble or something, and suddenly Steve’s a little anxious. He’s no fucking slouch, he runs and skates and does dryland training with the kids and everything, but Billy treats his body like a well-oiled machine and it looks it. 

Plus, Billy used to live in California, and apparently _everybody_ is beautiful in California, and from what little Steve does know about Billy’s history he knows what the fuck he’s doing, so what the hell is _Steve_ gonna do to impress him? What if Billy, like, gets annoyed with having to teach Steve everything? 

“Babe?” Billy asks, runs his hand through Steve’s hair. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just--just nervous,” he answers after a pause. His mom had sat him down when he was fifteen and she’d caught him making out with Ashley H from down the street and given him a big talk about how _if you can’t talk about sex, you aren’t ready to have it_ and a bunch of other stuff about _bodies_ and _pleasure_ that had kept him from making eye contact with her for a _week_. It had made him a hit with the girls, though; when he was sixteen and Samantha had let him put his hand down her skirt, she’d sighed _God, you’re the first dude I’ve ever met with any idea what he’s doing_ after and he’d glowed with pride for days. All of this to say, Steve knows what to do with a girl, and he knows Billy knows what to do with a guy, but _he_ doesn’t.

“I, uh, I’m afraid I’m gonna be, well, bad at it,” Steve murmurs, feels his face flame. “Like, you know what you’re doing and I, I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“Babe,” Billy says gently, sits down on the bed and wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pecks his cheek. “I _know_ you’re gonna be good at this, and even if it’s weird or whatever the first time, we can always _practice_.” He’s using that dumb _jock hitting on a hot girl_ voice that always makes Steve laugh, and it does the trick this time, too.

“Okay,” Steve says, “Just, like--you’re gonna, like, show me what to do, right?”

“You won’t need me to do that,” Billy reassures, “Just do what feels good, and tell me if anything isn’t okay, yeah?”

“Duh,” Steve says, and Billy’s laughing when he pulls him in for a kiss.

Things get hot and heavy again quickly, and this time Steve can feel the way Billy’s muscles stretch under his fingers when Billy rolls his hips down onto Steve’s for friction that makes them both groan. It feels so good rutting up against Billy that Steve’d be content to just, like, cum in his boxers and call it a day, honestly, but apparently Billy has other plans. 

“Let me go down on you,” Billy asks, pulling back from the massive hickey he’s leaving on Steve’s collarbone. Steve’s brain just, like, _whites out_ for a second at the idea of Billy’s mouth on his dick, and he makes some embarrassing sound in agreement that has Billy snickering a little. 

Billy’s slower about it than the girls who’ve done this for Steve before; they usually get right to it and kind of treat it like a chore, like it’s something they _owe him_ because he’s just gone down on them immediately before, which _sucks_. Billy, though, seems like he wants to explore or something, like he wants to learn what feels good for Steve, like this _means something_ , and it does, obviously, but he’s glad knowing Billy feels that way too. 

He’s still on top of Steve, hands roaming and mouth hot. His teeth scrape over Steve’s nipple and it’s like Steve’s whole _body_ is electric for a second. The squeak of surprised arousal he lets out is mortifying, but the huff of amusement Billy lets out soothes the embarrassment, just a little. 

Billy uses his teeth a lot, which Steve’s _shockingly_ into. He nips at the soft skin on Steve’s belly, makes Steve shiver and break out in gooseflesh all over; he bites a little harder at the curve of Steve’s hipbone, and Steve can’t help but buck a little, overwhelmed by Billy’s fucking _mouth_ , the same mouth he’s been having dreams about for months, the same mouth all the bored housewives say is _sinful._ They’re right, honestly. Steve would commit any _number_ of sins to keep Billy’s mouth on him, especially when he finally moves down far enough to breathe hot and damp over the tent in Steve’s boxers.

“ _Billy,_ ” he whines, “please, _please._ ” 

Steve’s been thinking about this for _months_ ; the fantasy of everything it could be has been haunting him at the worst times, when he’s on the phone with his mom and when he’s trying to remember _anything_ about Lady Macbeth’s motivations for an English test and when they take over one of the booths at the Palace to do homework while the kids come over every five minutes to bitch about not having enough quarters. All the ways he’s imagined it can’t come close to this, though, to Billy’s mouth warm on him and his hands fitting themselves into the grooves of Steve’s hips and his muscles tight under his skin, still sun-gold from California even after a freezing, dark Indiana winter.

“I’m gonna take care of you, princess,” Billy answers, eyes flashing when he looks up at Steve, sees the pitiful, half-begging look that must be on Steve’s face. 

“Be patient, baby, I got you.” Billy’s voice is smug, like he’s relishing in the way he’s taking Steve apart. He pulls Steve’s boxers down, throws them _somewhere,_ and Steve should care to look where they land but Billy’s so close and Steve wants to _cry_ with how good this is, how much he _wants._

“ _Don’t_ pull my hair, princess,” Billy warns, “Or I’ll bite your dick off.” The threatening smile on his face makes it very clear that he’s serious, and Steve finds himself nodding stupidly in response. Billy throws an arm over Steve’s hips to hold him down and goes in for the kill.

His mouth is _perfect,_ hot and wet and lush, as he swallows Steve down; Steve can’t keep himself from thrusting a little, but Billy’s arm is strong over his hips, keeps him from moving too much. Steve’s making _all kinds of noises_ , and enough of his brain is still working that he puts his fist up to bite at his knuckle, keep himself quiet. Billy pulls off, then, uses his hand to give Steve some friction while he catches his breath.

“I wanna _hear you,_ baby,” he says in a gravelly voice, using his spare hand to bat Steve’s hand away from his mouth. Steve thinks for a second, stupidly, _I did that, my_ dick _did that to his voice_. “This hotel’s fancy enough no one’s gonna hear you through the walls, so lemme hear you, okay?” 

Steve nods, hypnotized by the way Billy’s lips are spit-spick and a little swollen, and then Billy leans back down to mouth at Steve’s shaft, little kitten licks that are so overwhelming to look at that Steve has to close his eyes. He sucks at the head of Steve’s cock, takes Steve down again so smooth Steve thinks he might actually cry. Billy gives off this sheer animal magnetism, as stupid as that sounds, and Steve _knew_ that Billy was gonna be good, of _course_ he did, but nothing could’ve prepared him for just how _amazing_ Billy is, honestly.

“I’m--I’m gonna--fuck,” Steve says, trying to warn Billy, but when he glances down, Billy just winks and hums around his dick and--and the world _explodes,_ narrows down to color and the rush of blood in his ears and the suction of Billy’s mouth. It feels like Steve comes _forever,_ like he’s going to shake apart into a puddle of boneless, satisfied goo, but when he comes back to himself, vision blurry with tears, Billy’s still there, pressing kisses to Steve’s hipbone and smoothing his hand gently over Steve’s thigh.

“Hi, baby,” Billy smiles, voice hoarse. _I did that,_ Steve thinks again, just as stupidly, and he can’t do anything but smile all gross and sappy down at Billy. “How you feelin’, huh?”

“Good. C’mere,” Steve slurs, a little comedrunk. “Wanna kiss you.”

“You sure?” Billy asks, already moving up and over him again. He’s still hard, his dick still tenting his boxer briefs, and Steve wants to _touch him_ , wants to make him feel good.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, fingers curling into the hair at Billy’s nape. He kisses Billy with a dumb tongue for a minute while he gathers his wits about him, then rolls the two of them so Steve’s on top.

“Lemme take care of you?” he asks Billy, and Billy bites his lip, smiles wide and a little false.

“You don’t have to,” he says, a little awkward, and what the fuck? 

“I want to,” Steve tells him, lets the honesty bleed into his voice. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I wanna make you feel good, too.”

“Use your hand,” Billy suggests, rutting up against Steve’s thigh where it’s between his legs. “It’s just like what you do to yourself, yeah?”

“Tell me what you like,” Steve tells him, and gathers a little spit in his mouth to get his hand wet.

Billy grunts a little when Steve gets his hand around Billy’s dick, a quiet, desperate sound that Steve wants to hear _forever_. His dick isn’t massive, not the monster all the girls at school whisper about, but it’s a perfect handful, skin _so_ velvety and hot under Steve’s fingers. Steve doesn’t wanna, like, _hurt_ Billy, and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing with somebody else’s dick, so he’s gentle, his hand looser than he likes to use on himself.

“A little tighter, please, baby,” Billy hisses, sounding almost in pain with want. When Steve tightens his hand, moves a little faster, Billy moans low in his throat and bucks up, reaches out to grab the sheets for some kind of anchor. In terms of mechanics, it really isn’t that different from jerking himself off, if Steve’s honest, but the way Billy’s back arches and the sweet, quiet sounds pour out of him are way better than anything he’s ever done alone.

“Yeah, unh, like that,” Billy directs. “Just, yeah, don’t stop, fuck, _fuckfuckfuck, please._ ” He unclenches one fist from the sheets, puts his hand into Steve’s hair and curls his fingers, enough to tug just a little. His breath comes short, harsh in his throat.

“Yeah, c’mon, shug,” Steve coaxes, pressing kisses to Billy’s chest, scraping his teeth across Billy’s nipple just to make Billy’s back arch. He adds a twist at the end of his stroke, rubs his thumb at the spot just under the head, and Billy’s dick jerks in his hand.

Billy cries out like he’s _dying_ when he comes, muscles contracting so hard Steve’s worried he’s gonna get a cramp or something. He’s breathtakingly, _heartbreakingly_ beautiful, face screwed up with pleasure and toes curled. He seems not to even breathe for a long minute, overwhelmed by his orgasm. Steve strokes him through it, waits until Billy's body goes limp, until he whimpers and shivers, until he pushes Steve’s hand away with shaking, uncoordinated fingers.

“ _So good_ , baby,” Billy murmurs, voice entirely fucking wrecked, “So good for me, fuck.” Steve looks at his hand, covered in Billy’s cum, and wonders for a second what he should do; his brain comes back online just long enough to remind him that _Billy_ swallowed, so maybe he should do the same?

He lifts his hand to his mouth, tastes bitter and salt and maybe a little sweet, and Billy groans again, eyes glued to Steve’s fingers like he’s hypnotized. Steve blushes, feels something like quiet pride at the way Billy’s still breathing heavy, still a little shaky when he reaches out a clumsy hand to pet at Steve’s back.

“ _Baby,_ ” he half-begs, “You can’t just _do that_ , you’re gonna _kill me,_ shit.” Steve winks, curls his tongue around his pinky; he can see Billy’s brain just, like, short out for a second before he drags Steve down to the bed. Steve’s more than happy to collapse next to him, sweaty and satiated, but after a minute or two Billy stirs, pulls himself up to sit.

“”M gonna go get a washcloth,” he says, scratching at his belly. 

“Okay,” Steve yawns. “Warm water, please.”

“We’ll see, princess,” Billy teases. He stands, and Steve watches his ass jiggle the whole way into the bathroom, listens to the water run in the sink. He’s still staring at the doorway when Billy reappears, throws a washcloth at him; it lands with a wet _thwock_ on Steve’s chest, and it’s lukewarm _at best_. 

“ _Agh_ ,” Steve complains, holding it away from him with a wrinkled nose. “Too cold, fuck.”

“Come here, you big baby,” Billy sighs, faux-exasperated as he walks over, takes the washcloth, and rubs gently at what little mess remains on Steve’s hand. “It isn’t that bad. You want the other half of your present, now?” He says it all casual, as if Steve isn’t immediately on high alert.

“The other half?” he repeats, and Billy laughs, goes to throw the washcloth back into the bathroom and then rummages in his backpack. He brings out a little box, the fancy gold-covered kind that the earrings Steve’s dad buys his mom come in sometimes, and passes it to Steve.

Steve waits until Billy sits down next to him on the bed to open it, pulls out a gold saint’s medal attached to a wheat chain that looks almost exactly like Billy’s.

“I, uh, I know you aren’t, like, a Catholic or anything,” Billy starts, cheeks a little red. “It’s just, well, I thought it’d be nice, to have something matching, you know? I can’t let you have this one,” he pulls at the medal around his own neck, “my ma got it for me, but I figured, well, if you don’t like it or somethin’, I can always take it back, you don’t have to take it if you don’t wanna--”

Steve throws his arms around Billy’s neck, medal clutched in his fingers, and cuts off his awkward explanation with a kiss. When he pulls back, he puts his fingers through Billy’s chain, pulls it taut with two fingers so the front of the medal catches the light. 

“Is mine this guy, too?” he asks. He should probably feel stupid for not knowing, should probably have, like, researched Catholicism and the saints and shit or something before now, but it’s not like Billy’s devout; Billy gets weird about it when other people ask, so Steve hasn’t ever asked before.

“Yeah, it’s Saint Jude,” Billy explains, a little sheepish. “He’s, uh, the patron saint of hopeless causes. I figure if it’s a sin to be gay, and we’re together being gay for the long term or whatever, might as well have someone looking after us who’s used to looking after hopeless causes. It’s kinda stupid, I know.”

“It’s not,” Steve insists. “I love it. It means a lot, sweet thing.” He means it, too, and he makes sure he lets himself sound earnest in the way he usually fucking hates, the way his parents’ve been trying to train out of him since he was six and he told his dad’s old business partner that he looked like he had a badger pelt on his head.

“Okay, good,” Billy says, ducking his head to try to hide the relieved look on his face.

“You know Max and the rest of the kids are gonna give us _so much shit_ about having matching jewelry, right?” Steve says; the smile on his face is so big it kind of hurts, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s gonna be wearing it forever, if Billy keeps being such a fucking _marshmallow._

“Oh _god,_ for the rest of _time_ ,” Billy sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, and Steve laughs himself silly.

“Put it on me, then, I guess I’d better get used to it,” Steve sighs, trying for put-upon. He’s pretty sure it just sounds all gooey and lovesick, if the look on Billy’s face is anything to go by. He twists so Billy can drape the medal around his neck, shivers with a delicious happiness when Billy presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.

 

“Hey, B,” he says a little later, while they’re brushing the jizz taste out of their mouths, elbows knocking against each other. “You know I’m, like, in love with you, right?”

“Oh,” Billy says, toothbrush held loose in his hand. “I love you too, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay we mcfuckin' DID IT Y'ALL!!!! I have cried about this fic, have stayed up late and gotten up early and stolen moments from work and fun and school, and it was all absolutely worth it. 
> 
> I'd like to take this moment to celebrate all of you who've read this goliath, to anyone who's given me kudos or commented on or bookmarked this fic. These last few months have been such a wild ride and I'm so glad you all took it with me. Your words and other support have really helped me feel comfortable with my writing in a way I haven't since I first started writing, and I _regularly_ go back and read the lovely, kind comments y'all have left. _Please_ don't hesitate to leave a comment if you have something to say, no matter how old this fic becomes--it really does mean so much to me. 
> 
> I know reading WIPs can be a terrifying thing, and I am _truly_ so so SO sorry this last installment took me forever. I wanted to challenge myself to write smut (which I feel surprisingly okay about!!!) and I wanted to find some way to make this not feel like some awkward, tacked-on thing. I was really okay with the way the last chapter ended, honestly, as an ending to this, but I finally (like, legitimately five minutes ago y'all, I am one of those people who never edits outside of when I fix the HTML because I'm a garbage child, if anyone knows a good beta hmu tbh) found something that felt right and complete, so here we are!!
> 
>  
> 
> **Fun Notes**
> 
>   * The chapter title comes from _Vacation_ , by The Go-Gos.
>   * [Backyard rinks](https://www.theglobeandmail.com/sports/hockey/why-backyard-hockey-rinks-remain-a-rich-winter-tradition-in-canada/article22282662/) are a Canadian tradition that extends to a bunch of states near the Canadian border, and even though I am _literally_ positive that Indiana in the '80s wasn't cold enough to sustain a backyard rink, we are all going to have to live within my fantasy world where that's possible, mostly because I am pretty much positive that y'all wouldn't want to read about Steve making Max do dryland training. This way, Max can fulfill her dream of being the most terrifying child to ever play ice hockey _much_ faster.
>   * [Here's the link](https://open.spotify.com/user/nikwarr/playlist/6T1BrkyajgycrBZzliP5Un?si=4RC56DfoQD6in1-RW7-KvA) to the last playlist for this work. If you like my playlists, don't worry! There are _absolutely_ gonna be more playlists in later works for this series.
>   * The Brass Rail is a real bar that exists in Fort Wayne, and has been open for like SIXTY YEARS. It's just about always been 21+, from what I can tell on their website, but I really wanted to ground their trip in reality, and they've hosted a ton of punk shows for basically ever, apparently, so it was a perfect fit for my Plot Device (tm).
>   * The Fort Wayne Komets are a real team, too, and though I didn't actually find out if they had a game on Valentine's Day IRL, I really wanted to include hockey somehow in the second half of the chapter. For the record, [their logo really does look like a saw blade](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Wayne_Komets#/media/File:FortWayneKomets.PNG), it's _terrible_ and I love it.
>   * A fun little thing I couldn't find a place for in the fic, but that is 100% true in my mind: the note Kali sent with their fake IDs had a scratched-out PS at the bottom with a message for Nancy. Billy spends, like, _three days_ trying to figure out what it says other than Nancy's name, and can't do it.
>   * The band they go see is called Meat Puppets, a cool fucking punk band who were signed to the same label as one of my faves, the Violent Femmes. The Meat Puppets (and the Violent Femmes) pioneered this blend of folk and punk and (in the case of the Meat Puppets) country that became known as "cowpunk" and if you don't think that's the funniest goddamn subgenre name, I can't help you, sorry. The only song I mention specifically in this chapter is called _Up on the Sun_ and was written for the lead singer Curt's daughter.
> 

> 
> You may have noticed that this work is now officially part of a series!!!!! If you want more of these good, good boys finding a family that works for them (plus some cool plot (tm), go subscribe to the series! I'm already just about done with the short bridge one-shot that connects this big boy with my next big boy! I'm not going to push myself the same way to put out super-frequent chapters with the next big work that I did with this work, so expect slower (but hopefully more coherent and well-edited, lmao) updates for future works. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU again for everything, y'all. Bless tf up.


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